


A Wrath of Dragons

by kishafisha



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Gore, Dragons, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Swords & Sorcery, Violence, individual chapter warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-08 04:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishafisha/pseuds/kishafisha
Summary: For nearly twenty years, Sir William has served House Crawford, having completed any number of tasks in the service of his lord. To have slain even one dragon in that time would be a celebrated feat, but with twelve kills now to his name, Will has grown weary of the death and bloodshed. Lord Crawford, desperate to see his fiefdom secured, offers his knight one final task in exchange for his retirement: slay the Great Red Dragon. As ever the case in life, there is a catch...Will must complete his task while accompanied by Lord Lecter, a foreign mage and seeming dandy of the court.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 168
Collections: MHBB2019





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Back again for another Murder Husbands Big Bang! This was originally what I had intended for this year's ABO Big Bang, but I couldn't manage to keep it under 5k, so I shifted it to this. Many thanks to the fantastic human beings in the Eat the Rude Big Bang, who sprinted with me and gave inputs on ideas when I was stuck. I doubt you knew what you were helping me with, but thank you all the same, lovelies!
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, ravenfyre, and to [ninayoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninayoshi/pseuds/ninayoshi), my amazingly talented artist! I enjoyed working with you so much, nina! (I'm sorry there aren't any vampires.) Also big thanks to mod fishie for allowing me to post on the 19th instead of the 18th as planned. On Posting Day last year, I received the news that my grandfather was on my deathbed and as soon as I saw the notification this time around, it all unexpectedly came rushing back. I'm so very grateful for the patience and support in getting this out.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with me, individual warnings for each chapter can be found in the end notes, so please feel free to check them out if needed, but know that there's likely spoilers there.

“A plague,” Lord Crawford said quietly as he stared out the window of his tall tower. “My fiefdom is suffering a _plague_ of dragons.”

The lord of House Crawford preferred the use of this tower for meetings of delicate matters that he would rather not make for whispered conversation in the court. Not only had the room been warded against eavesdropping by the court sorceress, but the effort it took to reach the topmost room of his highest tower tended to dissuade even the hardiest of castle spies. Frankly, it was enough to dissuade _Will_, but one did not refuse ones lord simply because of a few hundred stairs.

“One might argue that the dragons are suffering a plague of humanity,” Will commented, looking down at the map Lord Crawford had left unfurled across his desk.

“Strange words from a knight who has felled so many of the beasts,” Lord Crawford countered, turning from the window to pin Will with a hard look. “Twelve by my last count, is it not?”

“I’d argue that makes me more than qualified to comment on the subject,” Will ground out irritably, adding an aggrieved, “my lord,” as an afterthought.

“Do you sympathize with the beasts, Sir William?” Lord Crawford challenged, his dark eyes lit by an unfettered hatred toward the creatures that hunted his people. “You, who are the last to fly the banner of River’s End?”

The name pulled at an old wound on his heart and Will spared his lord a hot glare of chastisement to have used the ruined hold of his childhood against him. “I _empathize_ with them,” he spat, hands tightening to fists that made the worn leather of his gloves creak faintly. “Overrun the land of any man or beast and like as not they’ll fight to regain their place in the world.”

“And I should simply let my people be devoured as a matter of course? Allow the slaughter of their stock and burning of their fields to go unchallenged?”

Will sighed and relented, shaking his head. “Ever have I done as you’ve asked of me, my lord, and I will do whatever task you have for me now…but to what end? Will you not be satisfied until every last one of them is gone?”

“I will be satisfied when I am assured of the safety of my people,” Lord Crawford said firmly, taking a seat behind his heavy desk. “But if you do me this final task, I will release you from your oath of fealty. You can live out your days haunting Wolftrap Keep, if that will satisfy _you_.”

That gave the knight serious pause and he studied his lord, trying to discern his thoughts. Will had been in the service of House Crawford for nearly two decades, since washing upon the riverbank as a boy; the sole survivor of House Graham. It was a useless title, for the destruction of River’s End had left him with no inheritance of which to speak, much less a regent who might have managed a holding in his name. Penniless and orphaned, Will had been fortunate that Lord Crawford had offered him a place in his fiefdom instead of killing him outright and gladly swore his oath as he took on service as a squire. When he’d unexpectedly presented as omega a few years later, Lord Crawford had his own physician show Will how to use herbal lore to mask his scent and quell his heats, preventing a fate _worse_ than death. Will was fully aware of the debt he owed Lord Crawford, twelve slain dragons notwithstanding, which meant that the task now at hand was worth his very life.

“I have never asked to be released from my oath, my lord,” Will said quietly, looking down at the map between them again.

“That doesn’t mean you haven’t longed for it, Will,” Lord Crawford replied tiredly, though not unkindly. “You have served me well these many years, going against your nature to kill in my name. Most would think me a monster to subject an omega to such work, but you have a talent for violence that rivals even your empathetic heart. Do this last thing for me and you will be free of your yoke. Settle down, start a family…live the life you were meant to, perhaps.”

The very idea of finding an alpha to seed him so that he could grow soft and complacent with a family of his own seemed utterly foreign to Will, but he nodded all the same. “What would you have me do?”

“Slay the Great Red Dragon?” Beverly demanded of him a short while later, giving Will an incredulous look as he saddled his horse. Winston had learned to tolerate the touch of the stablehands over the years, but Will still preferred to see to the stallion’s tack himself. “Will, that’s suicide!”

“Only if I die,” Will replied dryly, patting Winston’s flank before he lifted the saddlebags up onto his hips.

“Which you undoubtedly _will!_” she hissed, folding her arms across her chest in consternation. “The Great Red Dragon is _legendary_ for its brutality. This isn’t some fledgling drake that slaughters sheep in the night. It levels whole _villages._”

“I’m aware,” he muttered bitterly and Beverly grimaced before reaching out to catch his arm, stilling his movements.

“Is that what this is, Will? Vengeance for the fall of River’s End? Do you even know if that wyrm is the one responsible?”

Will pulled away from her gently, shaking his head. “That isn’t why I’m going. The dragon…it took Lady Reba when it set upon Westreach.” Although Will had met Lady Reba only twice when she came to court, the woman’s kind heart and unyielding perseverance had left an impression upon him. A childhood illness had left her afflicted with blindness, yet she saw more beauty in the world than most.

Beverly was quiet for a moment as she took this in, closing her eyes briefly before she sighed. “You know that she’s certainly already dead.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, setting his weapons into their oiled leather sheaths.

She frowned a moment more, then set her jaw determinedly. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you are not, Ser Beverly,” Lord Crawford said firmly as he entered the stable, waving aside the groomsman before he could move to bow before his lord. “I need you and your men here to ensure the defense of the Triangle.”

“My lord, surely you don’t mean for Will to do this _alone_,” she protested.

“I work better on my own, Bev,” Will said to her quietly and grimaced at her wounded expression. “People are…distracting.”

Ignoring this, Lord Crawford leveled a look upon them. “Sir William will _not_ be going alone.”

“What?” Will asked in some surprise, frowning at his lord even as Beverly relaxed. “Who?” At the demand, Lord Crawford raised a cool brow and Will added a surly, “My _lord._”

Mollified, Lord Crawford folded his arms and braced himself as though anticipating the blowback of Will’s consternation. “Lord Lecter has offered his services in your endeavor.”

Beverly cackled as Will’s jaw dropped. “Lord _Lecter?_” he repeated in shock and disgust. “He’s a _fop!_”

“He’s a _mage_, Sir William,” Lord Crawford said sternly, his tone offering censure for any further complaints against the foreign lord that was a recent guest of his House. “He was mentor to Lady Alana, as you well know. She has only ever spoken in his favor.”

“Then let the Lady Alana accompany me!” Will insisted.

“And here I believed you and Lady Alana to be friends,” Lord Crawford said, raising a brow. “You would so readily put her in danger?”

Will’s mouth tightened at the thought of the pale court sorceress in the path of a raging wyrm and he glared into the middle distance. “I’m no escort for a dandy’s trophy hunt, my lord. If Lord Lecter joins me, I cannot guarantee his safety.”

“Then I shall have to see to my own, sir knight,” a soft, inflected voice came from deeper in the stable and Will’s hands tightened on Winston’s saddle.

It was rare for Will to be caught unawares, but the mage had slipped in completely unnoticed. Glancing over at the foreign lord, he was unsurprised to see that he was dressed in fine robes cut in the mage’s style, a rich brocade of scarlet and burnished gold that belonged in a king’s court, not a dragon hunt. He was closely followed by a young roan mare to whom Will had secreted an apple on more than one occasion while tending to Winston. Though his own stallion was several hands shorter than the chargers favored by most knights of House Crawford, the roan mare was positively delicate.

“You may want to choose a different horse, Lord Lecter,” Will said sullenly. “It’s more than two hundred leagues to Westreach. One of the warhorses would serve you better.”

“Abigail is more resilient than she may appear, sir knight,” Lord Lecter replied in some amusement.

Will canted his head toward Lord Lecter at this, brow furrowed. “Abigail is _your_ mount?”

“She is,” he conceded, inclining his head.

“I must agree with Sir William,” Lord Crawford broke in, concern creasing his brow. “Resilient your mare may be, but our warhorses won’t throw you in the face of a dragon.”

“I appreciate your concern, Jack, but I assure you it takes more than a dragon to startle my Abigail.”

Lord Crawford sighed and shook his head, rubbing two fingers against his brow. “You’re as stubborn as Sir William, Hannibal… I’m beginning to doubt the wisdom of sending you off with him. I trust you both have all that you require?”

Will gave Winston’s tack a quick tug to test it, then nodded shortly. “Unless there’s anything _else_ you’d like to saddle me with, my lord.”

Beverly coughed lightly to hide a smile, but Lord Lecter seemed unaffected by the barb, bemused even. Lord Crawford scowled at his knight, but shook his head. “I’ll signal the bannermen. No, you may _not_ leave unannounced, Sir William,” he insisted firmly, his tone brokering no argument. “Not only are you traveling with a Lord and an honored guest of my House, but the reappearance of the Great Red Dragon so close to our borders will have the people on edge. Seeing the Fisherman’s banner flying from the walls will give them heart.”

“You mean that they’ll be pleased to see the back of me,” Will corrected archly.

“Well you can hardly blame them for being unnerved when you insist on being so unnerving,” Beverly teased.

“Do _not_ cross the gates until the horns sound,” Lord Crawford warned, giving Will a firm look before he turned to stride out of the stable.

As though seeing the stubborn resistance on his face and guessing the outcome, Beverly put a hand lightly on Will’s forearm and squeezed gently. “Give him this one, Will. You deserve to be recognized for what you’re trying to do, however foolhardy it is.”

“You make it sound as though I’m his sacrificial lamb,” Will grumbled, but led Winston from the stable at a sedate pace, rather than mounting him as he so wanted to do. Not once did he check to see whether Lord Lecter followed, propriety be damned. The mage could follow if he was so determined to, but he was delusional as well as foolhardy if he expected Will to spend the next two weeks toadying to the lordling.

Beverly snorted, shaking her head as she walked alongside him. “I wholly believe that you’re too stubborn to die properly,” she assured teasingly, nudging her elbow into the hardened leather over his ribs before she took on a more serious expression. “If anyone can slay the Great Red Dragon, it’s you, Will. But I can’t help but worry at the cost.”

“If I die, do _not_ allow Freddie to write my ballad,” Will only half-joked.

“Oh come now, where’s the fun in that? None of the other bards would dare to paint you an even greater villain than the wyrm!”

“Swear to me, Beverly.”

Looking put upon, Beverly rolled her eyes and sighed. “Very well…in the event of your grisly and untimely death, I shall somehow manage to keep the most obstinate bard in the land from doing exactly as she pleases.”

“_No one _is going to die, grisly or otherwise,” a voice scolded from above and Will looked up to see the Lady Alana descending the stairs from the keep to the inner bailey, her normally peaceful expression pinched with concern.

Her mage robes were far less ostentatious than Lord Lecter’s, a simple cornflower blue that would normally set her eyes sparkling, were they not so burdened by fear. Will’s heart ached a little at the sight of her, though it had been a long time since he’d let that flame die out. Still, he loved her as though she were his own blood and had hoped to spare them both this parting that was so clearly paining her as she approached.

Laying a gentle hand on his arm, she gave him a beseeching look. “Please, Will…don’t do this. This is nothing short of madness.”

“I’ve already tried to make him see reason, my lady,” Beverly sighed, folding her arms.

“The dragon has to be stopped, Alana.”

“That doesn’t mean that _you_ have to be the one to do it!”

“Lord Crawford seems to think otherwise.”

“Jack is _wrong!_” she replied sharply, then lowered her gaze and sighed when Will merely looked at her. “You still have my amulet?”

Nodding, Will put a hand to his breastplate, beneath which Alana’s amulet hung alongside his mother’s crest, thrumming softly with power. “I have it,” he assured her softly. “I’ll be safe, Alana.”

“You had better,” she warned him, tightening her hand on his arm as though she could somehow hold him fast before releasing him to turn her attention on Lord Lecter. “Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”

“No heartfelt concerns for my own wellbeing?” Lord Lecter asked her, wry humor coloring his tone.

Despite her solemnity, Alana’s lips twitched upward with obvious fondness. “I can trust _you_ to have more than enough self-preservation to return safely, Hannibal. Which is why I want you to promise that you’ll look after Will.”

Scowling at this exchange, Will glanced back to see that Lord Lecter was looking at him in turn, his lips curved in a smile. For just a moment their eyes met and a shiver of primal unease crept along Will’s spine before he turned his gaze with a frown. Lord Lecter’s eyes were the color of blood spilled on the road.

“I promise to take care of your Will, Alana,” he intoned softly and Will tightened his grip on Winston’s lead at the seeming gravity of his oath.

A horn sounded from high upon the battlements and Will sighed as the call rang out to clear the traffic of tradesmen and pedestrians in the portcullis. He would have much preferred to have ridden out the postern gate to slip away unseen, the Triangle’s morale be damned. Mounting Winston, he imagined that the show of honor must please Lord Lecter, who seemed to ever demand the attention of whatever room he happened to find himself in.

Beverly stepped close to Winston before Will could depart, her features uncharacteristically solemn. “Come home in one piece, Will,” she ordered and Alana nodded her fervent agreement, arms wrapped worriedly about her person.

“Please,” Alana begged softly, taking in the pair of them with eyes overbright from emotion. “Please be safe.”

Inclining his head in what small assurance he could manage, Will gave the women a tight smile, then spurred Winston forward. Two banners were unfurled from on high, the heavy fabric snapping sharply as it laid out over the stone. One was familiar to him, a blood red fish on a black field. The other could only belong to House Lecter; a sleek black stag on a harlequin field of silver and crimson. Will frowned at it, then dropped his gaze to the road ahead, ignoring the stares of those who had stopped to watch Lord Crawford’s Fisherman leave on another impossible task.

Usually his official departures were silent except for the horns, but an air of anticipation, and even excitement, seemed to alight the throng with Lord Lecter riding alongside. Though he’d only been a guest of House Crawford a few seasons, the mage was well-liked and easily recognized in his flamboyant frippery, drawing cheers from those gathered as they smiled and waved him off. A few of the bolder children came running alongside, begging to see a bit of magic before his departure and Hannibal made a show of checking the pockets of his robes. After a seemingly fruitless search, he lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, only to have the gold lift suddenly away from the fabric in a swarm of shimmering butterflies, leaving the fabric patterned in gray against scarlet in their wake.

The crowd was enchanted, but Will only grit his teeth at the display and spurred Winston into a canter to distance himself from the mage. Undeterred, Lord Lecter somehow managed to follow after Will while simultaneously entreating the crowd so that they were in full celebration by the time the pair reached the main road. It left Will’s shoulders feeling overly tight and he resisted the urge to coax Winston into a full gallop that would wear them both out before they’d even started. As it was he had to make a concentrated effort to relax into the movement of his horse as they rode away from the Triangle.

The castle’s true name was lost to time, as the keep had begun as a military fort at a junction of three rivers in ages past. The people had long called it the Triangle because of the unusual pocket of land upon which it stood, crudely triangular within the natural moats of the three rivers. Over time, the keep had grown to become one of the most highly defensible holds in the kingdom and was made a proper holding for a titled lord. Rumor held that Lord Crawford once saved the life of His Majesty and had summarily been gifted the fiefdom in thanks, claiming the hold from House Prurnell. Having seen his lord train with the sword master, Will could believe the tale, but he also found the man far too clever to have won his fiefdom simply through an act of heroism.

“I had thought the colors of House Graham to be different, sir knight,” Lord Lecter commented as he finally drew alongside Will, the traffic on the road far sparser once they were beyond the river.

What relaxation Will had managed in their silent progression abruptly abandoned him and his hands fisted tight about Winston’s reins. “House Graham has no colors,” he bit out.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to cause offense,” the mage demurred. “The fall of River’s End was a terrible loss.”

Will did not answer except to slowly relax his grip once more, though he found difficulty in managing the same with his jaw. He could still remember the colors flying over his father’s hold; a bone white carp on a field of blue. No one remembered them more clearly than he, especially not some foreign dandy who likely gained all his knowledge from the rumor and intrigue of the court.

“I’ve always found the Triangle to be such a remarkable design,” Lord Lecter said, clearly deciding to broach a safer topic of conversation. “It ought to have washed away long ago, yet the land is elevated just high enough to have never flooded.”

Though he could feel a sigh building just behind his teeth, Will somehow managed to grasp onto some sense of decorum and held it in, choosing instead not to respond. He had little to say on the topic of castle construction and even less interest besides.

“Winston seems a fine animal, though unusual to this region,” the mage next mused. “I admit that I’m relieved to know that I am not alone in preferring a solid temperament over the imposing stature of Jack’s war horses.”

Here the knight felt his lips twitch very slightly, for he was indeed fond of his horse and Lord Lecter’s. He held no malice toward Lord Crawford’s chargers, but they were bred to go to war and Will found that a cruel thing to ask of an animal who had no choice in the matter. Not to say that they had given Abigail and Winston much of one, but he knew from experience that his stallion would always choose to follow him, more purely loyal than any man.

“Do you intend to make the journey to Westgate in silence, sir knight?” Lord Lecter asked in amusement, the edge of a taunt in his tone.

Will’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his gaze on the road ahead. “That seems a fair assessment, considering I had planned to undertake this task _alone_, my lord,” he retorted acerbically. Compliments to his horse aside, Will had no desire for companionship and no compulsion to hide the fact now.

“Surely the company is not as bad as all that. I imagine it gets quite desolate to be out in the wild alone.”

“I prefer to be alone.”

“I think if that were true, there would not be those who speak so highly of you. Lady Alana in particular has been quite vocal in her admiration of you since coming into the service of Lord Crawford.”

“It is possible for one to maintain both friendships and autonomy, Lord Lecter.”

“Then I hope you will come to see me as a friend, Sir William.”

His jaw tight with irritation, Will finally gave the mage a cold, flat look. “I don’t find you that interesting.”

“You will,” Lord Lecter promised, the sun catching in his eyes so that they almost seemed to glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: None


	2. Two

Though Will offered little in the way of discourse, the mage kept up an idle thread of conversation throughout the day, seemingly content to fill the silence despite the knight’s obvious reticence. There seemed to be no end to the flow of chatter and Will couldn’t decide if Lord Lecter was deliberately provoking him or he was simply that frivolous. On his own he often made the effort to pace himself so that he could stop over at the inns and taverns that dotted the network of roads, well aware that a night spent out of the elements would keep him better rested than he would be otherwise. However, when Lord Lecter broached the subject once the sky began to redden, Will rejected the notion outright.

“I would remind you that we are hunting dragons, not seeking merry sport, _my lord_,” he bit out, the title falling like an epithet from his lips. “I will be making camp here in the forest. If you wish to seek shelter elsewhere you should know that I will not wait for you come morning.”

A small, knowing smile crossed the mage’s face and he inclined his head in acquiescence. “Merely a question, sir knight. I will sleep wherever it is you feel would be most appropriate.”

This drew a soft snort out of Will, but he said nothing in reply. What would be most appropriate was for Lord Lecter to return to the keep. Or better yet, for the foreign mage to return to his own lands. He kept them moving until he worried that Winston might stumble in the low-light of dusk, dismounting to lead them off the road a ways. The mage followed and mirrored Will through the process of ensuring the horses were properly fed and rubbed down before he stretched, rubbing idly at the tightness in his lower back and hips.

“Shall I build a fire?” he inquired politely, causing the knight’s jaw to tighten.

“It’s far too dangerous,” Will lied. “You’ll draw the attention of every unfriendly creature and highwayman for ten leagues.”

“Even so close to the Triangle?” the mage wondered. The growing shadows of evening hid the features of his face, but this sentiment seemed to entertain him. “You’ve so little faith in Lord Crawford’s ability to defend his lands.”

“I’ve little faith in the world at large,” Will muttered, which was true. He would have liked a fire, as it happened, just as he would have liked to sleep in a passable excuse for a bed, but more than either of those things, he wished to be rid of the lordling.

Lord Lecter’s taste for the decadent was well known in the court, ever since his arrival at the Triangle. He had brought no less than thirteen trunks with him and, to hear the servants whisper of it, had completely redecorated the rooms he was given to suit his fancy. Will had honestly half expected the man to bring along a full caravan of wagons when he’d realized the fop would be joining in this task. Surely a day or two of roughing it in the wild would drive Lord Lecter back to the Triangle. Lord Crawford was welcome to be annoyed with Will upon his return…he was more likely _to_ return without the liability presented by the mage.

They ate some bread and dried meat in the gathering dark, quiet but for the sound of the daytime world turning to night, the birdsong replaced by a hum of insects. After a while the mage got up to walk a slow circle around their campsite and, once he’d completed the circumference, a strange feeling of calm assurance seemed to settle over Will like a mantle.

“For protection,” Lord Lecter said by way of explanation, though Will hadn’t questioned his actions.

Merely grunting in response, the knight sat himself against a tree with his sword lain ready across his thighs and drew his cloak about him. Sleep seemed a far distant prospect, but the odd comfort of the spell laid over their campsite lulled his chin down to his chest. He woke to Winston’s uneasy snort and the sound of something moving in the dark. Something big.

Opening his eyes, Will lifted his head slowly to scan the shadows about them, his body slow and heavy so that he felt almost paralyzed. At first he saw nothing, the world hidden to him with only faint starlight and a sliver of moon to illuminate the forest, but then he saw it. A dark, monstrous shape crept forward, sliding around the trees as it pulled itself closer, belly dragging over the ground with a rasp of fauna against scaled hide. Though it was hard to judge in the dark, the dragon looked to be three times the length of Winston and nearly twice the height, branching horns like antlers sprouting from its reptilian head. It was so dark that it looked to be made of the space between stars, scales catching the faint light of the moon in an oily sheen.

Approaching the camp, it stopped just outside the circle and looked at Will, silent and menacing. Its maw split open on rows of pointed teeth, gleaming white where they caught the moonlight and it spoke in a low rumble of sound, filling Will’s mind as much as his ears. _‘You aren’t afraid,’_ the wyrm stated.

“No,” Will breathed softly and knew it to be true. He could feel the sword lain across his thighs, yet made no move to claim it. In fact, he doubted he would be able if he tried, the way his body felt so heavy, like stone.

Stretching its body up so that it seemed to fill the sky above, the dragon loomed over Will, over the whole of the camp and for a second it looked as though it was still held outside the boundaries of the protective spell. _‘Why do you not fear death?’_ it wondered and then casually leaned over Lord Lecter’s circle of magic as though it were but a small inconvenience, close enough that Will’s nostrils filled with the scent of old blood.

Will knew with a certainty that it could kill him if it wished. That it would rend him asunder with tooth and claw and feast upon his flesh until he was nothing but blood and memory and shattered bone. Yet the fear still didn’t come.

“I _am_ death,” Will whispered into the darkness, looking not at the black dragon’s jaws, but at its eyes, dark and cold as the void.

A chortle of amusement spilled out of the wyrm’s throat, the sound akin to the grinding of stone on stone. _‘Such an amusing boy you are,’_ the dragon condescended and this, more than anything, got a rise out of Will.

“Don’t underestimate me,” he warned and Will’s hand obeyed him at last, sliding onto the haft of his blade.

_‘Perhaps not…’ _it mused and finally withdrew, still chortling as it melted back into the darkness. _‘Sleep well, boy…I will kill you another night.’_

Will awoke with a start to the high warble of a robin welcoming the new day, his body stiff and chilled from having slept upright on the unforgiving ground. For a moment he frowned at the lightening sky in confusion, so certain it had just been fully dark. And the dragon…

“A dream,” he muttered softly, rubbing a hand over his face to clear away the last vestiges of sleep. Of course it had been a dream, it was all too obvious in the dawning light of day. Will was no stranger to intense, lucid dreams, but those usually came in the days _after_ he’d slain a dragon, not before.

Or at the very least, after using the Lure.

“Good morning, sir knight,” Lord Lecter greeted with far more geniality than was warranted. A tantalizing scent of food pulled at the hollows of Will’s stomach and he opened his eyes again to frown at a bowl of eggs over porridge, steaming lightly in the chill morning air. “I trust you slept well.”

Letting his eyes travel up the length of the mage’s arm, now robed in a rich cobalt blue, Will scowled Lord Lecter, who seemed perfectly refreshed after their night in the forest, his long hair smooth about his shoulders. Will had _not _slept well. It hardly felt as though he’d slept at all in point of fact and the dream left him feeling uneasy, as though his meeting with the dragon had been reality and this moment now was fantasy.

“I thought I told you not to start a fire,” he rasped out roughly, his voice still heavy with sleep.

The mage looked far too pleased with himself and he tilted the bowl toward the knight. “As it happens, I’ve no need of a fire to cook us a meal. I thought you might appreciate something hot to start the day.”

Will frowned at the bowl stubbornly, then took it with a small grunt of thanks, sitting more fully upright. Ill-tempered he might be, but he was hardly going to be so rude as to reject a hot meal. Whatever magic Lord Lecter had used meant that it had not cooled even while Will had sat frowning at it, fresh and warm as he spooned it into his mouth. It was upsettingly pleasant, savory and filling, made all the worse for the mage’s satisfied expression as he sat across from Will with his own bowl. Sharing a meal as though they were companions.

“I believe the circumstances of our partnership may have started us off on the wrong track,” Lord Lecter offered, folding his egg into his own porridge. “Perhaps we could start again.”

“That wouldn’t change our circumstances,” Will pointed out flatly. “Nor does it make this a partnership.”

“Yet we needn’t be strangers,” he reasoned.

With a sigh, Will lowered his nearly empty bowl and said, “We aren’t strangers, Lord Lecter. We are, at most, acquaintances whose spheres of influence very loosely overlap. You are nobility and a guest of House Crawford, to which I am merely a sworn vassal. We do not stand on equal footing or you would not be here.”

“Then I suppose you would object if I asked to call you Will? I would hold no quarrel to your calling me Hannibal in return, of course.”

Taken aback by the request, Will stared at the mage, momentarily at a loss for words at the utter lack of propriety. Was he attempting to charm Will as he did the majority of the court? Swaying his favor with hot meals and a lack of titles?

“It doesn’t truly matter whether or not I object, given that you’re like to do exactly as you please, Lord Lecter,” Will decided, irritably returning to the last of his breakfast.

Chuckling at this, the mage inclined his head and turned his attentions to his own meal. “As you say, Will.”

The rest of their meal passed in silence to Will’s relief, though the strange conversation had admittedly been a distraction from the dream. He felt disconnected from the world as he saw to Winston, readying his mount for the day’s ride. More than once, Will found himself scanning the forest as though to reassure himself that the dark shape of the wyrm was not lurking there, waiting for him. Waiting to kill him. Though it had been a dream, he’d spoken truthfully in the night…Will truly did not fear death. Dying was easy and it happened frequently, at times by his own hand. Living…that was far more unsettling.

A murmured word of power caught Will’s attention and from the corner of his eye he watched as Lord Lecter commanded a small spout of water to clean away the remnants of their breakfast, his long fingers making graceful patterns in the air as though playing some curious instrument. Will had seen Alana perform similar acts in court before, but never so effortlessly, as though commanding the elements were so simple a thing. That the lordling was using it for so small a thing as cleaning his crockery seemed needlessly frivolous.

When he was finished, Lord Lecter neatly packed away the bowls into one of his saddlebags and followed Will as they led the horses back to the forest road, mounting them once more. The familiarity of travel helped to ease the lingering sense of unease from his dreams, the world becoming more solid about him with the steady movement of Winston below him. It seemed foolish now to have been so rattled by nighttime imaginings, as though this were his first time slaying a dragon and not what should be the last, so long as Lord Crawford kept his promise.

“Tell me about dragons, Will.”

Whether it was the order or the familiar use of his name, Will could not say, but the mage’s words sparked a sudden ire in him when they broke the silence of this strange morning. “Do you mean to suggest that you’ve embarked upon this folly without even the knowledge to aid in your survival?”

Though most of Will’s barbs had been met with varying levels of amusement or indifference thus far, Lord Lecter’s demeanor now cooled significantly. “You truly find it so unreasonable that I should want to seek to further my knowledge from a dragonslayer? You are on your thirteenth kill, are you not?”

Grimacing, he looked away from the mage, letting his eyes scan the trees. “What is it you want to know?” he acquiesced softly, an unspoken apology for his rudeness.

“As much as you are willing to share, sir knight,” Lord Lecter replied in a neutral tone.

The shift in formality left Will feeling oddly ill at ease, but he tried not to dwell on the strange sentiment. “Perhaps it would be more productive for you to tell me what you already know,” he sighed, rubbing tiredly at his brow.

Inclining his head in agreement, the mage’s expression turned thoughtful. “Dragons are creatures of magic, able to change their form at will and speak all the tongues of man and beast. They are at least as clever as humans, if not more so.” A small smile curled up one side of his mouth. “And of course, a dragon’s true form is that of a large, serpentine beast.”

It was about what he would have expected the lordling to know, though Will was relieved that he had some understanding of how intelligent dragons were. The underestimation of a wyrm’s mind had led to many a grisly death.

“That’s mostly true, but they are more varied than people realize,” Will explained, gesturing at the trees above them, filled with morning birdsong. “Much like birds or lizards, they’ve far more variation to their form than humans. The largest dragon I’ve slain could have looked over the outer ramparts of the Triangle, but the smallest was no larger than Winston. Many of those I’ve seen in their true form were scaled, but fewer than half bore wings and even less had horns of any consequence. I’ve also seen dragons with tough hides and thick manes, and there’s even been rumors among dragonslayers of wyrms that are feathered, though I’ve not seen one.”

“What of the dragon we hunt? Have you heard anything of it?” Lord Lecter asked, looking relaxed and curious once more.

Nodding seriously, Will’s mouth thinned as he considered the task ahead. “They say his hide is pale as a corpse and so thick as to turn away the weapons of man. That he stands tall as a house with wings twice as long, yet moves with speed.”

“His hide is pale?” the mage asked. “Then why is it they call him the Great _Red_ Dragon?”

“The blood,” Will replied grimly. “Though it’s said he can breathe fire, the wyrm tears apart his prey with tooth and claw, painting his hide in blood.”

A rather thoughtful look came to the lordling’s face at that and he murmured, “That sounds rather…beautiful. I imagine it would look black as pitch in the moonlight. More than a little garish, but I can imagine the terror and awe such a sight would evoke.” Will stared at the mage in some surprise at the sentiment, his ears ringing faintly with the distant sound of screams, but Lord Lecter continued to ask, “Have all the dragons you’ve slain been so violent?”

It took a few shuddering breaths for Will to clear the taste of ash from his mouth before he managed a hoarse, “No. No, not…not all of them.” Clearing his throat, he sat a little straighter in his saddle, patting Winston’s neck lightly when he whickered. “But the majority, yes. The dragons I’ve slain were all…wrong in some way. As though they’d lost a part of themselves somewhere along the way, driven to madness when they cannot adapt to the ever expanding world of men. There’s a theory…that dragons had no care for the material before men began to covet gold and jewels. That we taught them our greed and their madness is our penance.”

“Do you believe that?” Lord Lecter asked, to which Will could only lift his shoulders in a small, helpless action.

“It’s as good an explanation as any, but I believe some dragons simply go mad in the same way humans do. Who is to say for certain why anyone should abandon reason for butchery?”

“Unless that butchery is born of fealty, of course,” the mage commented mildly, drawing a frown from the knight. “All the dragons you’ve slain…how did you know they had succumbed to this madness?”

“Experience,” Will hedged, too quickly perhaps as he turned his eyes back to the road, unsettled once more.

They were two days beyond the Triangle when they came upon the dragon.

It wasn’t the Great Red Dragon, of course, as they were still nearly a fortnight from Westgate and most of the great wyrms were loathe to remain on the move when they’d started a suitable hoard. Nor was it the black beast that had been haunting Will’s dreams, its eyes cold and knowing as it promised him death. Instead, this particular dragon had chosen to hide in the form of a fox, the pelt unnaturally iridescent in the sunlight as it stepped onto the trail ahead of them. Will pulled Winston to a halt before he fully realized the presence of the beast and heard Lord Lecter do the same just behind even as the fox-formed wyrm froze preternaturally at the sight of them.

At the sight of _Will_ and his dragonslaying armament.

Locking eyes with the creature, Will forcibly _looked_ within before it could attack or flee, the forest falling away until there was nothing but the steady beat of his heart and the dragon. She was young, still in her first century and so very _frightened _now. Her fear threatened to choke Will, clawing through his chest and into his throat as though it were his own. She’d been so _careful _all this time, staying to the deep forest, well away from the human villages and townships with their precious metals and jewel craft that poisoned the minds of her kin. Long had she avoided travelers and hunter’s traps all these years only to now blindly stumble upon Death.

Now she would not have the chance to know the faces of her young, still forming in the belly of her mate.

An awareness pushed upon the borders of Will’s mind and his breath stilled as it pulled him from the place where only he and the dragon existed. Power, dark and menacing, was gathering behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck lift in a primal fear response. After a moment of reorientation to be pulled so abruptly back to the living world, he realized that it could only be Lord Lecter. The mage was _powerful_, far more so than Will had realized, and he had clearly understood that no ordinary vixen now crossed their path, building his magic in preparation to strike. Will imagined some great and terrible beast coiled at his back and felt a cold, instinctive fear even as he raised a hand to stay him. The power abated, but only slightly, ready and waiting at his nape. Will tried not to think of it as a blade poised to strike him down, though it was surely the dragon whose life was in the balance.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse as he focused intently on the drake once more. “Stay in your forest. Harm no humans. _Go._”

She hesitated, as though unwilling to believe that they were truly letting her go, taking a few slinking steps with ears and tail lowered submissively. When they made no move to pursue her, she darted suddenly away and was gone in a flash of sunlight on fire-bright fur, disappearing into the trees. By degrees, the maelstrom of Lord Lecter’s power faded until Will felt that he could breathe again, resisting the urge to roll the tension from his shoulders. Glancing back at the mage only briefly, he noted the intensity of his gaze, vibrant and questioning in contrast to the placidity of his expression, then Will averted his gaze, urging Winston forward once more.

The silence between them was contemplative and they had traveled half a league before the mage finally broke it to ask, “Why did you let her go?”

“She wasn’t a threat,” Will replied shortly, keeping his eyes on the forest before them.

“I’m not certain Lord Crawford would agree with you.”

Will snorted at that. “Lord Crawford believes a dragon’s very nature makes it a threat. Men have the same capacity for evil deeds and the greater number with which to bring them to fruition, yet he never asks me to go and murder _them_.”

“Would you?” Lord Lecter wondered, sounding genuinely curious. “Would you slay all of Jack’s enemies if he asked it of you?”

“Is that not what a lord expects from his knights?” Will countered somewhat bitterly. “Aren’t _you _here doing the same?”

The forest opened up into a clearing and Lord Lecter moved Abigail alongside Winston, raising an eyebrow at Will. “I am Lord Crawford’s guest, not his vassal. I’m here completely of my own volition.”

“And what _is_ that volition exactly?” Will wondered, frowning at the mage. “If you were here on a trophy hunt, the vixen would have been a suitable prize.”

“You don’t believe that a man of my standing would be interested in doing what is best for the people?” Lord Lecter asked him, tilting his head curiously.

Will gave Lord Lecter a withering look that had the mage chuckling in amusement. He’d frankly sooner believe that the dandy was in _collusion_ with the Great Red Dragon, though he had at least enough tact not to tell Lord Lecter as much.

“Perhaps I’m here for _you_,” the mage teased and Will flushed very slightly, scowling.

“Then you’ve even less reason to be here than I thought,” he retorted coldly.

Lord Lecter hummed softly, looking a little too pleased with himself for Will’s liking, but then grew more serious again, focusing his attention on the knight. “How did you know?”

“Know?” Will repeated in irritation, though he felt a furl of unease between the blades of his shoulders.

“That the dragon was harmless,” he clarified.

Will was quiet for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “I didn’t say she was harmless. No dragon is harmless.”

“But you knew that she wasn’t a threat,” the mage pressed. “You were certain of it.”

A rash of defensive anger crept up his chest and he cast a glare at his companion, eyes all but sparking with aggravation. “You’ve been at court more than long enough to have heard every possible rumor about me, Lord Lecter.”

“Yet I would hear the truth of it pass your own lips, Will,” he intoned softly, as though coaxing a beast. “I’ve heard whispers that you were raised lifeless from the river as a child and carried Death within you upon your return to the living. That to look into your eyes is akin to surrendering one’s very soul. I’ve also heard that you ate the heart of a dragon to gain unnatural powers. Or that you are a changeling replaced at birth and caused the fall of your own House.” Here Will stiffened despite himself and Lord Lecter looked rueful to have mentioned it. “I think perhaps the most audacious rumor I’ve heard is that you are not Sir William at all, but that you were replaced by the Shrike years ago.”

Rather taken aback to hear the name of the second dragon he’d slain instead of the first, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I can imagine whose tongue would twist such a tale…Mistress Lounds does so prefer drafting the more sensationalist ballads. But if I _were_ the Shrike, why would I continue to slay my kin?”

“Why indeed,” Lord Lecter mused. “A dispute over territory perhaps? The need to prove one's supremacy?”

“The need to kill and horde unchallenged, more likely,” Will mused, snorting softly. “I spoke truthfully to you before. By the time I’ve been given the task of claiming a wyrm’s head, there’s something…_wrong_ within it. A madness often born of a failure to adapt to a growing human presence in the world.”

Though Lord Lecter said nothing at this, Will could all but feel the questions building between them and he sighed in acquiescence. “Ser Beverly calls it the Lure. It is…a peculiarity for which I have no explanation, but I suspect involves my parentage.”

“A shared trait among House Graham?”

“No,” Will said, jaw tight with suppressed emotion. This wasn’t something he talked about, hardly something he liked to _think_ about, but he felt oddly…compelled when it came to the mage. He wondered if it were not perhaps an _actual _compulsion to share his history now. “What I remember of my father is how ordinary he was. Decent, but flawed. Fair, but self-serving. Just…a man. Living his life until he suddenly wasn’t.”

“Then…your mother?”

“A mystery. I suppose that most of my father’s House thought her a whore, though never within his earshot. They had less of a care for the motherless heir.”

“Did he never speak of her?”

“Only once and only to say that he had never known anyone like her before or since…and that his greatest fear was that she might one day return for me.”

“I imagine there were days that you wished for it,” the mage mused, considering Will. “To be swept away from the whispers and jeers, enfolded in a mother’s unconditional love.” Disconcerted, Will looked at Lord Lecter in some surprise, feeling the words twist at the long forgotten vulnerability of the child he had once been. Smiling slightly, the mage canted his head and asked, “Do you suppose her to be more than human, then? A witch or one of the Fey, perhaps?”

Will sucked a breath in over his teeth, his hands tightening around Winston’s reins. “The thought did cross my mind.”

“Tell me about the Lure.”

“_Why?_” Will burst out, shaking his head in exasperation. “Why are you so curious about me?”

“Because you are a curious man, sir knight,” Lord Lecter offered with a small smile. “The road to Westgate is long, besides…and as you’ve already made it very clear that you do not find _me_ interesting, I must otherwise entertain myself.”

When Will closed his eyes that night, tired and cold from a lack of fire the third night running, he somehow already knew the black dragon would be waiting in his dreams. It was the scent of blood that woke him this time, rather than the sound of the creature moving through the trees. Dark as pitch, the wyrm sat within the mage’s circle this time, a monstrous shadow that blocked out the moon and stars. Will’s heart pounded at the proximity, knowing there would be no possible way to physically defend himself should it attack, yet he remained prone on the ground.

_‘I can hear your heartbeat, boy,’_ it told him with a low chortle of amusement. _‘You’re frightened.’_

“I’m startled. There’s a difference,” Will countered, an edge belying the feigned calm in his words.

_‘If you move, I will rip you,’ _the wyrm stated placidly. _‘Though you don’t have to move to be dangerous, do you.’_

It wasn’t truly a question, so Will saw no need to answer. It was true that he could easily use his Lure to take hold of the beast, just as he’d done so many times before, yet though Will believed the dragon’s threat without a doubt, he still hesitated to defend himself. He’d fought to survive for so long now and to what end? To seek and find his master’s quarry like a loyal dog?

_‘Why do you not fight me, boy? You could use your gift…lay me low just like the others.’_

“So could you,” Will challenged, though he kept his voice soft.

In a flash of movement that was felt more than seen, claws slashed out at Will from the darkness, the thick talons a deadly blur of motion that halted just before his skin, his pulse pushing lightly against them. Unmoved, Will watched the dragon steadily, the scent of old blood and fresh loam filling his senses. With a low, grinding chuckle at his utter lack of self-preservation, the wyrm scraped his claws against Will’s neck, catching on the chain of his pendants. Hooking into them with surprising care, the dragon drew them free from where they rested behind the hardened leather of Will’s armor.

The first and most prominent pendant was his mother’s crest, which flew on no banner Will had ever seen, yet assuredly belonged to her, according to his father. One of his earliest memories was of his father setting the chain about his thin neck and making him swear that he would always keep it on, forever letting the memory of a stranger weigh upon his breast. Smoothed by time, the flat disc was comprised of smooth stone, like those he’d once collected from the bed of the river, and carved upon it was the head of a stag. Peculiarly, the stag’s hide was comprised of feathers, delicately carved with a patient hand. As a child, Will had sometimes imagined a great black stag walking along the river’s edge, feathers ruffling lightly in the wind.

The second pendant was smaller and far more delicate, crafted for him by the Lady Alana when she’d learned of his designation. Humming faintly with her power, the pendant masked his scent without his having to rely upon herbal remedies and, more importantly, kept him from his estrus.

Though it was far too dark for a human to have seen the details of his jewelry, Will could somehow sense that the dragon was not similarly hindered and it chortled after a few moments of studying the charms. Laying them back onto the knight’s gambeson, the claws drew away, leaving Will feeling oddly chilled from the displaced air against the vulnerable skin of his neck.

_‘Perhaps I won’t kill you, boy… You’re becoming far more interesting than I could have expected. Much too interesting to kill. Even in dreams.’_

The dragon’s terrible laugh still ringing in his ears, Will woke with a gasp and shuddered, sweat drying cold against his skin even under his clothing. Gripping the handle of his sword, he stared out into the dark forest and did not sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Threats of violence and murder.


	3. Three

They continued in much the same vein over the next several days. By day, Will’s waking moments were hounded by Lord Lecter’s incessant need for conversation, utterly unfettered by the knight’s standoffish demeanor. Time and again, he asked after Will’s childhood, his knighthood and his dragonslaying, undeterred by his continual refusal to speak about his history. By night, Will was stalked by the dragon, taunted and threatened in turn so that he felt rather like a mouse at the mercy of a cat. It wasn’t the first time he’d been haunted by a dragon, but those wyrms had fallen under sword and spear to die at his hand. Will had never been certain if it were some fragment of the dead still caught in his Lure that haunted him or simply some latent guilt over his actions. Those dreams had been equally viceral, to the point where he slayed and was slain in turn time and again in the quiet hours before dawn, but never had he suffered at the whims of a strange, nameless beast until now.

To make matters worse, while Will’s mood steadily declined from both lack of sleep and lack of privacy, Lord Lecter seemed completely unfazed by their travel on the road. Every morning he looked as fresh and groomed as though he were still at court, ready with whatever small meal he’d prepared to offer Will with great magnanimity. It was absurd that the fop should be handling their time on the road better than Will, who had slept under the stars as often as not over the course of his service to Lord Crawford. It reached a boiling point when Will started to find himself falling asleep in the saddle on the road and he abruptly called them to a halt, far earlier than usual.

“We camp here,” he growled, descending from Winston with little grace.

“Here?” the mage repeated, looking surprised. The clearing just off the road was actually quite decent, if a bit exposed, and might have made for a pleasant campsite, given a fire and a hot meal. “As you say…”

“I do say,” Will snapped and began settling Winston in with sharp movements that had the stallion whickering softly, as though in disapproval. Though he gentled his hands, there was no saving his foul mood as he got the stallion his feed bag and rubbed him down.

The mage quietly did the same with Abigail, murmuring to her softly in the strange, lilting tongue of his homeland. Will felt overly aware of his presence, like a needle prodding at his skin with every movement and he scowled openly. As though sensing this cloud of apathy, the lordling cleared his throat politely rather than making his usual turn about the camp to set his circle.

“I know that you are adverse to our having a fire, Will,” he began slowly. “But there are other ways in which my magic can make our stay outdoors far more comfortable. If you should want-”

“What I _want_,” Will broke in rudely, whirling on the mage with ire blazing hot in his eyes. “Is to be left _alone_, Lord Lecter!” Looking taken aback by his outburst, the mage opened his mouth as if to speak, but Will only snarled, stalking away from him. “Enough of this! Do _not_ follow me!”

Stamping through the brush with all the delicacy of a rampaging bear, Will walked from the camp until he came to a burbling stream, glaring at it as though it had offended him. Realizing how ridiculous this was, he sighed and slumped down onto the bank, scrubbing a hand over his face. He could hardly believe that he, a veteran knight and renowned dragonslayer, had all but thrown a tantrum just now. It was the sort of overreaction omegas were often accused of and that thought brought even more of a scowl to his face. He was at least assured that his foul temper had little to do with his secondary gender and everything to do with-

“Will,” Lord Lecter’s voice came softly at his back and Will very nearly growled as he surged to his feet and whirled on the mage.

“I thought I told you not to-“ his words died away abruptly as he found himself staring down the shafts of several notched arrows.

Reflexively, his hand went for his sword, but a voice barked, “_Don’t._ Unless you’d like me to sully your lord’s fine robes.”

A cowled man with a wide grin stood at Hannibal’s back, a knife to his throat while two others kept arrows trained on Will. Shifting movement in the trees gave away at least two others, but Will guessed there were closer to four. Too many for Will to hold in his gaze at one time, even if he could see them all at present. Given the state of their stained, mismatched leathers and tarnished weaponry, these were at least passably seasoned bandits. Not ideal odds, but not the worse Will had faced.

Except they had Lord Lecter.

Will’s hand must have hesitated at his hilt a moment too long, because a thin line of red welled beneath the blade at Hannibal’s throat and seeped into his collar, though the mage gave no word or wince of the pain it must have caused him. Jaw tight with displeasure, Will lifted his hands away from his scabbard, holding them open.

“There’s a good lad,” the cowled man sneered and the quick movement of his eyes to one side gave Will enough warning to lean away from the stunning blow to the back of his head. He stumbled forward a step only to be abruptly halted when his arms were yanked back sharply, wrenching his shoulders as thick-fingered hands bound him with coarse rope. Snarling, he jerked in place when a roughhewn sack pulled down over his head, the pungent smell of horse and fouler things flooding his senses. “Let’s take them back to the camp. Kill that one if he gives you too much trouble, Gerry.”

“Right,” Gerry agreed and shoved Will forward.

Pitching forward blindly, Will’s boot caught a rock and sent him jarringly to his knees, drawing a round of raucous laughter from the bandits. The laughter only increased when Will slammed his aching head backward into Gerry’s nose when he bent to haul him back to his feet, causing the man to swear violently. Digging thick fingers into his shoulder, Gerry gripped Will’s sword and pulled it free, and likely would have run him through if not for Lord Lecter’s sudden command of, “_Stop._”

The word rang through the wood with such force that Will’s breath caught, wondering dazedly if this were a form of magic. It certainly seemed to have frozen the bandits, their laughter dying in an instant as everyone went still. After a moment, Lord Lecter’s voice came again in its usual soft tenor.

“Look at what you’re holding. If coin is your goal, you’d be cutting your take to a mere pittance the moment you strike him down. He’s worth far more to you in ransom than robbery,” Lord Lecter reasoned, his voice calm and even, as though he were simply bartering their accommodations for the evening. Will supposed that in a twisted way, that was _exactly_ what he was doing.

“Bring that here, Gerry,” the leader snapped and the bruising grip on Will’s shoulder eased only for Gerry to kick him flat on the ground. Will was grateful that the disgusting sack saved his face from being cut upon the rocks and bramble, but he grunted in pain when Gerry stepped on his back as he marched over to the others, leaving him gasping for breath. He was only dimly aware of the leader’s sharp intake of breath, excitement lacing his tone. “Looks like your lordship wasn’t exaggerating. That’s _dragonsteel_ that is!”

“Whassat mean?” Gerry grumbled unhappily, clearly realizing he had lost the chance to wet the sword with Will’s blood.

“It _means_ that we’ve a dragonslayer in our midst, you great lout! Whichever House what owns him will be in a right strop when they find out we’ve taken him. They’ll pay his weight in gold to get him back, I’ll wager,” the leader said eagerly.

“Significantly less if he’s damaged,” Lord Lecter reasoned. “A dragonslayer’s of no use if he’s not fit to fight.”

“Too right you are, your lordship. Too right. Help him up, Martin! Gerry, stop sulking and _don’t_ lose that sword. We’ll be rich men soon enough and you can stab all the curly boys you like when the time comes, eh?” The bandits chortled at this and Will shuddered a little at the dark undercurrent of their mirth.

Hands gripped at him again and Will let himself be hauled to his feet this time, only just resisting the urge to slam his boot into Martin’s knee. A hand fisted in the sack as though to pull it off Will’s head, but Lord Lecter spoke up again.

“Perhaps it would be best to keep Sir William bound and blinded for his own safety,” he suggested and Will attempted to glare a hole through the rough burlap. “I fear he may only cause himself further injury if given the opportunity.”

The leader laughed and there came a muted thud as though he had clapped Lord Lecter on the back. “I’m growing to like you, your lordship! Most of your fellows just simper and beg, but you’ve a healthy measure of self-preservation, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Lord Lecter intoned with just a hint of humor. “I suppose I have.”

The bandits led them back to the horses and a small camp was set while the leader, Tom, spoke at length with Lord Lecter, determining the best method of delivery for their ransom. One of the men proposed sending along their ears as proof, only to find himself politely chastised as Lord Lecter pointed out that their ears were in no way distinctive enough to offer proof of identity, nor would it suggest that they still lived.

Still blind beneath his stinking sack and bound now to a tree that dug into every bruise he’d been afforded thus far, Will could only wonder at the game Lord Lecter was playing. He had done nothing but charm the bandits over the last few hours, a delicate ballet of eloquent manipulation that agitated the more roughshod of the group even as it delighted their leader. Even without being able to look into the hearts of the men around them, Will could feel a rising thread of unrest and malcontent, lifting the hair on the back of his neck like a coming storm. It came as little surprise when a boot found his side, sending a sudden sharp spike of pain through his torso as a large, stinking frame crouched beside him.

“Iffit’s proof of identity we’re needin’, we oughta turn out their pockets for one o’ them sigils them highborn types carry,” a familiar rough timbre insisted and Will grit his teeth when Gerry’s thick-fingered hands immediately began to paw at him.

“We are in possession of our banners, of course,” Lord Lecter said, as though to try and draw Gerry’s attention away from Will. “I think you’ll find-“

“Oi, looks like ‘e’s got some sort o’ medallion here,” Gerry crowed in satisfaction, grabbing hold of the chains about Will’s neck and jerking at the links forcibly to free them. Though the chain of his mother’s house held against the rough treatment, Alana’s pendant broke free into the bandit’s eager hand.

And brought with it a wash of Will’s scent.

“Ain’t this one o’ them-“ Gerry’s voice trailed off as he inhaled sharply, pushing his face in close to snuffle at Will’s throat like a dog. Will tucked his chin and bit at him, but Gerry’s tender nose served as enough reminder that he ducked away before his skin caught in the feral snap of teeth. “Sod a sigil…he’s a ploughin’ _omega!_”

Will could hardly hear over the sudden pounding of his own heart, but he could sense the undercurrent of foul excitement that had risen at the announcement, the bandits crowding in closer to verify Gerry’s claim. Jerking as hands came pawing at him more intently this time, no doubt searching for further verification of his sex, Will kicked out and was only distantly gratified to feel his boot connect with something solid, drawing a howl of pain from whichever bandit had been so unlucky. His shoulders screamed in agony as he strained to gain some leverage against the ropes binding him in place, a sense of blind, helpless _panic_ threatening to choke him. This was _not _something he would abide and with his head covered he could not Lure them with his gaze. Will would bite through his own _tongue_ before allowing himself to be brutalized by these men.

“Who gives a shite about dragonslayers,” a bandit was saying hungrily while his fellow continued to curse at whatever injury Will had given him. “With an omega we can make our coin and _then _some!”

One of the men suddenly screamed with the sort of naked, childlike terror that curdled the blood and for a singular moment, the shock of it seemed to silence the world. Then the forest dissolved to chaos, the screams spreading through the men like wildfire before they cut off abruptly. Will could not even hope to decipher the horrible, _wet_ sounds, hardly daring to breathe as he stared wide-eyed at the coarse weave of the sack still separating him from whatever horror lay beyond. He could feel the earth tremble and shiver where he sat bound to the tree, until suddenly it was over, utterly silent except for the rush of blood in his ears.

After what seemed an eternity of waiting upon the precipice of a knife, soft footsteps approached him slowly and then Lord Lecter was lifting away the bag. “I’m sorry, Will,” he apologized gently, as though he weren’t spattered in blood and gore. “I never intended to let them go so far.”

Will stared up at the mage in shock, panting through his mouth as his mind worked to process what had just happened. A nightmare lay around them, as though some deadly wind had torn apart the clearing, rending flesh from bone as readily as it ripped trees from earth. He could not begin to sort where one man ended and the other began, unsure anyone could have managed to reassemble the remains if they tried. Though he’d felt some hint the mage’s power with the fox-formed dragon, Will had never in his wild imaginings thought the foppish lord capable of _this_.

“I-“ he started and stopped, his eyes casting over clearing and it’s red, _wet_ patina of blood like spilled paint. His mind buzzing somewhat from adrenaline unspent, Will looked up at Lord Lecter rather hopelessly. “Are you alright?”

Lord Lecter looked taken aback by the question, his brow furrowing slightly as though Will were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “You’ve been beaten and bound to a tree and you’re asking after _my_ wellbeing?”

“Your neck,” he replied numbly, looking at the faint line of red that the bandit leader had drawn upon Lord Lecter’s throat.

Shaking his head a little, the mage huffed out softly in amusement, then made a gesture toward Will’s bonds, severing them with the barest slip of power. “You really are a remarkable boy,” he said rather fondly, crouching before Will, whose brow furrowed slightly. No one had called him ‘boy’ in well over a decade. “I believe you are also in shock. Can you stand?”

Nodding, Will pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, hissing in pain as his contusions made themselves known. Lord Lecter reached out to steady him when his knees threatened to buckle, though Will flinched slightly at his touch. Looking down at the blood and viscera littering the forest floor like so many leaves, his eyes snagged upon Alana’s amulet, still clutched in a lifeless grip, though the hand that held it laid alone. Nothing else of Gerry seemed to remain.

Stepping forward, he stooped to pull it free of fingers that were only just starting to cool, shaking it loose from the death grip. Again the mage reached out to steady him when his legs seemed less than certain in righting him, but this time Will jerked away.

“I don’t need to be _coddled_,” he spat, choosing anger as an anchor to keep himself grounded. “This changes nothing.”

“Will...I already knew,” Lord Lecter admitted softly.

Shock slid over Will in an icy deluge as he stared at the mage, taken aback for a turn before his eyes narrowed. “Was it Lady Alana or Lord Crawford?” he wondered acidly, tightening his grip around the ruined amulet.

“No one betrayed your confidence,” the mage reassured him, stepping closer to touch the broken chain dangling out of Will’s clenched fist. “But I’m afraid that I taught Alana this magic, Will. I’ve known the truth of you from the moment of our first meeting.”

Staring openly at Lord Lecter, Will listened for any falsehood in his words even as he thought back on the months since the mage had first appeared at the Triangle. Even under the lens of this new knowledge, he could find no trace that Lord Lecter had ever deferred to him as an omega, rather than the beta he chose to present himself as. The lordling moved through the court as though in performance and was well-liked for it, his words playful and clever enough that even those he publically dressed down found him charming. Though he had attempted to engage Will in conversation a time or two prior to the start of their journey, it seemed both then and now as nothing more than an extension of his collective turn about the room rather than a genuine interest.

Letting out a slow breath, Will nodded once in acceptance and held out the pendant. “Can you repair it?” he asked stiffly, feeling raw and exposed.

“Not easily and not here,” Lord Lecter said gently, but insistently. “I don’t believe it wise to linger.”

Glancing about the clearing again in the dying light of day, he swallowed thickly, the scent of blood so heavy upon the air that it seemed he could taste the dead. Whatever creatures were drawn by such violence would show little hesitation in adding either of them to their waiting feast. However capable the mage was, Will had no desire to stay and greet the darker things this slaughter would bring. Pocketing the amulet, he turned and headed toward the place where they’d left the horses, stooping to reclaim his sword along the way. He was both surprised and relieved to see both Abigail and Winston come into view ere long, wild eyed and wary, but waiting still. The bandits had kept only a few stubborn mules themselves, but the poor beasts had torn themselves free in their panic, leaving behind deep furrows in the loam.

“It’s alright,” Will murmured to Winston when the stallion snorted and jerked at his lead. His eyes were wide and wild as he watched Lord Lecter approach, but the horse calmed almost at once at Will’s reassurance, nudging at his master lightly. “It’s fine now, we’re leaving.”

Will rested his forehead against Winston for a moment, then decided that between his injuries and the rapidly dimming light, it wasn’t wise to try and mount the beast. Trusting Lord Lecter to follow, he led Winston back through the trees to the main road, where they were less likely to be set upon by whatever came scavenging the dead. There might be more of a threat for highwaymen, but it was clear now that neither of them would truly be at risk.

They walked until the blood and gore spattered upon them had dried tacky upon their clothing, though Will could not find it in him to care how much more difficult it would be to clear away now. There was a reason he wore dark colors and it would not be the first stains he had borne upon him. Silently, they prepared their camp once more as they had in the nights preceding, but this time Will gathered together wood for a fire, building it wordlessly while Lord Lecter set his protective circle. It was fortunate that the kindling was dry enough to burn, given that Will had gathered it in the dark, but if the mage had aided him in his endeavor, he said nothing.

Something eased in his chest when the fire slowly bloomed, casting out light and warmth into the night. For a long while, Will simply watched the flames as they licked at the bark and bramble, curling it into charcoal, then ash little by little. When he finally roused himself, he turned to find that the mage was behind him, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Sit,” he said softly, gesturing back toward the fire. “Let me see to your injuries.”

Will hesitated, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the beckoning flames. “I need to find stones. Set a barrier for the flames.”

“The fire won’t spread,” the mage promised softly. “Please, Will...sit.”

Having no further argument besides sheer stubbornness, Will sighed and acquiesced, resuming his seat in the circle of light by the fire. Crouching before him, Lord Lecter took hold of his head carefully, keeping his movements slow enough that Will could easily track them. Pushing back his hair, he looked into Will’s eyes for an extended moment, then nodded to himself.

“You’ve not suffered a concussion. You did well to protect your head.”

“Thank you?” Will replied wryly and the mage’s lips curved upward.

Careful fingers searched along his scalp to check for lacerations and the knight winced as they neared the back of his head where Gerry’s pommel had glanced off his skull. “The skin isn’t broken, but it will be tender for a time.”

“You can’t fix it with magic?” he muttered irritably.

“I could, but it would take a great deal of energy that I would rather expend on your ribs. Magic is not without limits.”

As though reminded by the mage’s words, Will’s side ached fiercely, singing with pain when he sighed. “If that’s the case, I would rather you focus your energy on my charm. You said that you could repair it?”

“It will take more than a single night to do so. That charm requires gestation over the course of a moon’s cycle,” Lord Lecter admitted, drawing his hands away from Will’s scalp.

Will stiffened in shock, a cold thread of panic stabbing through him. “I don’t _have_ a moon’s cycle to wait!”

“I know, and I believe I have another solution.”

Hands rising to the collar of his bloodstained robes, Lord Lecter lifted out a set of pendants very similar to Will’s own. The stag carved into ebony was a match for the pennant Will had seen fly on the ramparts the day they’d departed the Triangle, sending a small fissure of awareness through him that the foreign lord wore a crest in this manner. Rings were favored by the lords of these lands, such as the one Lord Crawford wore upon his first finger, just as Will’s father had, but he realized now that Lord Lecter’s fingers were bare. Any temptation he might have felt to ask after it was overshadowed by the second pendant the mage wore, a charm matching Alana’s, though he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Lord Lecter was no omega.

Looking up at the mage in surprise, he shook his head. “You need that surely as I do. It would only shift the problem between us.”

“It would, did I not carry the herbs required to accomplish the same end state,” Lord Lecter said gently and Will felt mildly abashed that he himself was not similarly prepared. The strong, earthen scent of alpha rose between them as the mage removed the charm, passing it over to Will. “Take it, Will. Unlike herb lore, the charm works the same between secondary genders. I will repair your talisman in the meantime. With luck, it will be complete by the time we return to the Triangle.”

Staring down at the pendant, Will swallowed against an uneasy lump that seemed to have taken residence in his throat. It seemed terribly intimate an offering to accept, given how he’d been determined to drive the mage away mere hours ago. Yet the thought of being outed by his scent - or worse, an untimely heat - far outweighed how needing Lord Lecter in this way stung at his pride.

Taking a slow breath, Will accepted the charm with a nod. “Thank you, Lord Lecter,” he said softly, unable to look him in the eye as he lifted it over his head. He was surprised when the alpha’s scent only grew stronger, but realized belatedly that his scent was likely soaked into the charm the way his own would be. It was an unsettling thought, more so because he did not find it wholly unpleasant.

“I rather think we’re beyond the constraints of decorum, Will,” the mage mused, tucking his crest back into his robes. “Please...call me Hannibal.”

“Hannibal, then,” Will agreed, putting the charm carefully beneath his gambeson, still warm from the heat of Hannibal’s body. His sense of unease renewed by the borrowed warmth, he asked, “What are the limits? Of magic, I mean.”

“The more one alters the natural order, the more difficult the casting. Much of the magic you might have seen me perform in the court has been illusion-based, which I have a particular talent for. It requires an understanding of the human mind and the limits of belief. The Lady Alana has no small amount of skill in this, as well,” Hannibal conceded and he shared a small, fond smile for his former student that seemed rather private. 

“Wouldn’t healing be a restoration of the natural order?” the knight asked curiously.

“One might think so, but if you cut the skin, the natural order is for the flesh to part and bleed. It expends greater energy to convince the body that it should return to the state it was in prior to this event. The most difficult magic, of course, would be convincing a body that is dead that it should live once more. That kind of magic is rarely performed, not only because of the near impossible task of securing a person’s spirit to flesh it has vacated, but because the amount of energy expended kills the caster.”

The very thought that the dead might be forced back to life left Will feeling vaguely ill and he shuddered. “But I _know_ that you keep your robes clean and whole with magic. Do you simply expend the energy for the sake of vanity?”

Hannibal broke into a sudden smile at this, shaking his head. “Such magic takes very little effort, as it happens. Unlike a living thing, an item crafted into being is meant to exist as was originally intended. All I have to do is remind my robes of their original state and be done with it. Observe.”

Gesturing down at himself, Hannibal’s hands moved as though to brush away mere dirt from the fabric and the horrific spatter there suddenly slid away, coalescing into a neat puddle on the ground that the mage then sent into the fire, his robes immaculate once more. More surprisingly was that the colorful pattern itself washed away, leaving Hannibal in simple robes of plain linen.

“The trick of it is that I purchase my robes undyed. Laying my own patterns and coloring is the true vanity of it.” 

Will stared at Hannibal, aghast with realization. “You’ve been wearing a singular set of robes this whole time! You’re only changing the color!” he accused, somehow affronted for all the previous annoyance he’d held at the dandy’s ever changing wardrobe.

Smirking unrepentantly, Hannibal inclined his head toward the knight. “Just so. If you would allow, I can now do the same for you, as well.” Reaching toward Will at his hesitant nod, he made the same gesture over his armor and within a few breaths, the gore slid away just as it had done for the mage.

Magic slid against Will’s skin, drawing a shiver as it worked over and through his garments, restoring as it went. He stared down at the renewed luster of his armor in some surprise, hardly noticing when the second puddle of viscera was expelled to the flame.

“I… Thank you,” he said softly, unsettled to feel so clean after days of hard travel and all that had happened that evening.

A small smile played across the mage’s face and he nodded in acknowledgement. “Would you remove your armament? I need to feel your ribs if I’m to heal them properly.”

Will was far less hesitant this time as he nodded, moving his hands to the polished buckles at his chest. “I may need some assistance,” he admitted and Hannibal nodded, following Will’s direction to remove his shoulder armor.

“This leather...it feels strange,” Hannibal commented lightly, fingering one of the plates.

“It isn’t leather, it’s dragonhide,” he grunted, grimacing as the pain of his ribs became sharper without his breastplate to brace his torso. “Far lighter than steel and more durable than leather. Lord Crawford had it crafted from the hide of the Shrike.”

This gave Hannibal pause and his brow arched as he took in the armor in a new light. “A fitting end, I should think.”

Nodding distracted, Will unbuckled his gambeson and remembered how unnerving it had been when Lord Crawford had first presented the armor to him in court. The Shrike, like all dragons, had been intelligent. Sentient in a way a common beast could never hope to be. It seemed somehow macabre to wear his skin into battle, yet a darker part of Will reveled in it. Proof that _he_ had been the superior predator in the end.

Hannibal helped him out of the padded coat without the knight having to ask and Will shivered a little to be left in his tunic, his battered torso completely unprotected now. “Had I not been hooded, I would have turned the seam to keep that bastard from hitting my ribs so directly,” he said to break the silence and ease his sudden nerves.

“I apologize for that...I had hoped it would keep you from goading them into further attack,” the mage admitted regretfully.

“Goading them?” Will scoffed, shaking his head. Leaning away from the fire a little, he carefully drew up his tunic to bare his aching ribs where angry bruises had blossomed outward. The warmth of the fire kept his skin from pebbling in the night air, but it was a near thing and the knight tried not to dwell on the vulnerability of being exposed in this way. “As though they needed an excuse.”

With delicate movements, the mage drew his fingers lightly over the bruised skin, pressing carefully to determine which of his ribs were broken. “You would have never been captured, were I not there,” Hannibal said softly after a moment and Will looked at him in surprise. “You need not lie for the sake of my pride. I’m well aware of it.”

“Yes,” Will agreed after a moment’s pause. “None of them moved as though they had any real fighting skill. They relied upon ambushing their prey in force. But had I been alone, they might have caught me off guard just as they did you.”

“Would you have used your Lure?” Hannibal wondered and then whispered a word of power that brushed almost tangibly over Will’s ears. His brow was furrowed and intent as a cold sensation slowly spread out from his fingertips, laying over the ache of Will’s ribs like a balm.

Will’s breath hitched and he shivered, staring out into the dark forest beyond the circle of light the fire afforded them. “I can’t use it on so many at one time. Two, maybe three at most. I...when I hold a creature in my gaze that way, there’s a moment where our souls...connect. Where I can see everything laid bare before me.”

“Have you thought about using it on me?” the mage asked and Will shook his head.

“No...I never use the Lure on any creature, man or beast, which I do not intend to kill.”

“Then I’m doubly surprised at your hesitation on my behalf,” he said, though his eyes belied the jest for what it was.

A soft snort of amusement escaped the knight, but it was short lived, replaced quickly by a somber moue. “When River’s End fell… I used the Lure on my father in a moment of panic. I’m not even sure what I was trying to accomplish in doing so.” He swallowed thickly, working the words he’d never spoken to anyone out of him with effort. “I held him in my gaze as he died. He was...terrified. For himself. For me.” Will glanced up at the knight, then away. “Of me.”

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal said softly. “No child should have to suffer the death of a parent in that way.”

“No parent should have to share their final moments with their child.”

Hannibal’s thumb brushed over his skin in something like tenderness before the mage drew away from where he’d healed the knight, the flesh now pale and unmarked. “On the contrary, I believe you gave your father a gift, Will.”

“A _gift?_” Will scoffed incredulously, dropping his shirt.

Inclining his head, the mage smiled softly and his eyes caught the firelight, almost seeming to glow like embers. “We are all of us alone in death, but you held him in those final moments. Let him see you, know you. He must have left this world knowing that he was not alone.”

Though he’d appreciated the light and warmth just a moment earlier, Will suddenly found himself hating the fire, knowing that it must be illuminating the effect Hannibal’s words had on him. He felt raw and exposed, flayed open before the mage and his too knowing gaze, but the words eased something in him despite himself. As though Hannibal’s magic could reach the old wounds on his heart as surely as it had his ribs.

“You should rest,” Hannibal told him gently, getting to his feet. “I will ensure that we are not disturbed until morning.”

“Hannibal,” Will called after the mage, stopping him before he’d reached the edge of the fire’s glow. “Thank you. I...am grateful you were here.”

Smiling in the flickering firelight, Hannibal bowed his head. “As am I, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Spoken threats of non-con, attempted non-con, death, gore, childhood trauma and violence.


	4. Four

As winter melts into reluctant spring, so too did the nature of their relationship thaw from that night, as though Will’s frosty countenance had required only a moment of shared truths beside a campfire to warm. In truth it was far more complicated, but whether it had been the slaughter of the highwaymen, the admittance of his secondary gender, or the cool touch of magic easing the ache of his ribs, Will no longer found Hannibal’s presence intolerable. Having to overcome his natural quiet for conversation was still irksome and the scent that yet lingered upon the borrowed charm lain against his skin was still unsettling, but Will found that having company was not wholly unpleasant.

Rather than waste energy on the flamboyant patterning of his robes, Hannibal left them plain and instead spent his efforts over the next few days resolving Will’s various hurts. He’d certainly gone into battle with far worse, but Will appreciated the effort nonetheless and was fully recovered by the third day. The unexpected gesture touched him enough that he only shook his head and smiled when Hannibal celebrated his recovery by turning his robes a rich umber overlaid with a swirling mosaic of gold.

Despite what had happened, or rather _because_ of it, they continued to make camp in the wild rather than seek shelter among the little townships and villages they passed. Being outed by the bandits had been harrowing enough that Will had no great desire to surround himself with strangers. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Hannibal’s pendant to keep him concealed, after all he had enough faith in the mage’s magic enough to sleep within its boundaries, but the memory of unwashed men pawing at him turned his stomach whenever his thoughts lingered there.

Hannibal offered no complaint to Will’s decision to stay on the road, but instead used his magic to keep them warm and protected, both from whatever creatures - man or beast - roamed the night and from the elements themselves. The added comfort eased the strain of his dreaming, though the visions of being stalked by the black dragon continued all the same. Will firmly drew the line at allowing the mage to go so far as to soften the ground, but he did enjoy the novelty of keeping dry. Of all the feats he’d seen Hannibal perform, there was a special sort of intimacy to sitting with him beneath the dome of his magic while the rain drenched the forest about them. A curious sense of shelter he’d not felt since childhood.

“Why did you come on this task?” Will asked him on one such night, boldly curious within that world the lordling had made for them.

“You no longer believe me a dandy on a trophy hunt?” the mage countered, amusement in his tone.

“That you are a dandy was never in question,” Will replied dryly, gesturing at Hannibal’s current coloring of pale cerulean and cream. “But I doubt you’ve much interest in hanging trophies on your wall. You seem far more impressed by the crafted than the natural.”

“Have you used your Lure on me after all?” he wondered, looking over at the knight.

“You would know if I had,” Will answered irritably, scowling. “Why avoid the question? It’s simple enough.”

“As you say,” Hannibal agreed, smiling softly at his consternation. Briefly, his eyes dropped to Will’s lips, which parted slightly when his breath caught, before they lifted again, searching the knight’s. “I told you before, didn’t I? I came here for you.”

A flush rose over Will’s face and he could feel his heart beat faster, as though he were preparing to fight or run from the mere suggestion. His own eyes betrayed him for just a moment, glancing at the all too pleased arch of the alpha’s mouth, absurdly sensuous in its curvature. Far more sensuous than it had any right to be, in fact. For the barest moment, Will wondered what that mouth might feel like against his own.

Instead of following that damning train of thought, he frowned and looked away into the rain, growling, “Keep your secrets then, you ridiculous man.”

Cold logic meant that the knight was all too aware that it was simply the curse of his biology that caused him to be overly aware of the alpha now. They had gone through a traumatic event, one in which Hannibal had proved himself more than capable of protecting him and then in providing for him. Adding that to the loss of his spelled charm and subsequent replacement with Hannibal’s, it was no great wonder that his nature would betray him to this end. Still, that knowledge did not keep Will’s eyes from occasionally following the lines of the mage’s features, nor did it stop him from coming to enjoy the growing familiarity of his companionship. But he did not question Hannibal’s reasons for being there again, afraid in equal measure that his answer would either differ...or remain unchanged.

When they left behind the forest to the rolling stretches of farmland nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Will finally brought himself to ask after Hannibal’s own history. It was a subject he had avoided partly out of fear that it would signify a deeper interest in the alpha, but also out of lingering deference to the disparate nature of their titles. However much the nobleman might protest at maintaining decorum between them, Hannibal was still the titled lord of a House. Whatever his history, Will was merely a knight sworn in service to House Crawford and though that rank may have earned him ownership over Wolftrap Keep, it was in no way equal to a lord of Hannibal’s standing. To play at familiarity now would only lead to bitter disappointment when they returned to their normal lives. If they returned at all.

“Don’t they worry for you?” he wondered aloud, apropos of nothing.

Caught off guard and utterly without context, Hannibal’s brows rose curiously. “Who is ‘they’ and why should they worry?”

Refusing to feel chagrined for his abrupt manner, Will gave the mage a terse look. “Your House. I would think traveling to foreign lands for dragonslaying would be a cause for concern.”

“Ah… Yes, I can understand how you would think so,” he said lightly, looking away from Will for once. “However, much like you, I am the last of my House. All that awaits me is an empty holding, marshaled by my vassal.”

Will grimaced, already regretting his choice in asking after his history. “The way you are with people, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I have always found enjoyment in entertaining an assembly. It becomes an elegant performance when all the players know their parts. Though to return to your original question, yes…I suppose that if my vassal knew of my goal, she would worry. She is quite protective of me.”

“Why not travel with her, then?”

“I suppose I would rather not be shadowed by the reminder of my failures. She, like my holding, is evocative of all I have lost,” Hannibal admitted, a gentle, lingering grief in his tone that Will understood all too well.

A part of him longed to be the sort of person who could reach out in this moment, to offer comfort through word or deed in the face of obvious pain. Alana would have known exactly the right action to take and Beverly wouldn’t have hesitated, whether or not it was the correct course. But Will was neither of them and so he let the matter stand.

“Where you come from,” he began, looking out across a flowing sea of green, “do all the lords of the Houses wear their crests as medallions?”

“It is far more common in the lands beyond the sea,” Hannibal agreed, looking over at Will curiously.

“And the hart? Is that more common as well?”

“Among the oldest Houses, yes. The hart was crowned king of the forest when beasts first came into being, after all.”

Shaking his head, Will snorted softly at the spurious truth so often repeated by hunters and housemaids alike. “I’ve always found that sentiment strange. The hart is hardly impervious to the wolf.”

“But it takes more than a single wolf to lay him low, does it not? It took men a great deal of ingenuity to manage such a feat, themselves,” Hannibal pointed out, to which Will chuckled in amusement.

“A fair point, I concede to the majesty of the hart,” he said, smiling wryly. Sobering somewhat, he licked at his lips rather nervously, then looked over at the mage. “Have you ever known a House to fly the banner of one that is…feathered?” It was a question that had burned within him since the night he’d seen Hannibal’s crest, though even now he was uncertain that he wanted to know the answer.

Searching the knight’s expression curiously, Hannibal looked thoughtful as he nodded. “They call it the Ravenstag. That House was lost some number of years ago, but though the name has faded from memory, the imagery remains.”

Setting aside the brief twist of bitter disappointment, Will frowned in confusion. “How do you mean?”

“The Ravenstag is considered a symbol of perseverance. Of adaptation in the face of adversity. It is sometimes worn by those who wish for the strength to overcome. To become more than they are. Or perhaps the truer embodiment of who they are.”

The pendant on his chest seemed to weigh down on him at Hannibal’s words and Will couldn’t help but remember when his father had first laid it over him. Had he known this then? Had his mother? Had either of them ever wondered at what he would become? Will had thought that he knew who he was, but with the end of his oath of fealty now in sight, he wondered if that were still true. Would he be able to persevere? To adapt? Or perhaps he too would fall to madness, waiting for the day that an errant knight came to bring him to a bloody end.

They were but a few days from Westreach when Winston nearly unseated Will for the first time in their history. 

The pair of them had left the forests and farmland for the mountain road two days earlier, rising steadily toward Hogback Pass. Before that morning, there had been a somewhat steady trickle of travelers coming from the opposite direction in that time; refugees seeking to cross the barrier of the mountain in hopes of escaping the Great Red Dragon’s wrath. Some had looked bolstered by the sight of Will and his dragonslaying armament, but most looked bedraggled and desolate, the light of hope extinguished in their eyes. Now the road was empty and eerily quiet as it wound through a valley of rock, barren but for a sparse brush that clung stubbornly to the hard packed ground.

Will had spent the better part of the morning attempting to convince Hannibal to sing. It was a strange and frivolous endeavor, but the night prior the mage had lamented at the lack of music available to them on the road and boasted that he was accomplished with both the harpsichord and the cittern. Given that the cittern was better suited to a minstrel than a fine lord, Will had determined this to mean that Hannibal should sing for them. Hannibal vehemently denied holding any talent in song, but Will persisted, certain that the lordling’s reticence was due to either the surety that he was actually quite proficient or that he would be so exceptionally lacking that the knight’s opinion of him would be forever tainted.

If Will hoped for the latter for the sake of hilarity, the mage needn’t know.

“I hadn’t known you to be so fearful, Hannibal,” he teased, feeling rather light-hearted despite the unnerving, resonant quiet of the crag bracketing them.

“Do you truly think to goad me into song, sir knight?” Hannibal wondered, a small smile playing at his mouth.

“I simply find it strange that you would so willingly boast at your musicality, and yet hesitate to perform for a captive audience,” Will replied, keeping his expression politely interested. At Hannibal’s utterly unimpressed look, a slow grin bloomed across his face however and he couldn’t help but laugh.

After a few moments watching him, the mage shook his head fondly and chuckled as well, looking very put upon by his insistence and the curiously playful mood. They rode on in silence for a few minutes more before he took a breath and began to sing softly, the words foreign and lilting, gentle in a way that Will thought it might be a lullaby.

> _“Pamatyti saulėlydį_  
_Diena baigiasi._  
_Tegul tavo žiovauti iš_  
_Nėra apsimeta._
> 
> _Aš tave apkabinsiu_  
_Ir apsaugoti jus._  
_Taigi leiskite meilei jus sušildyti_  
_Iki ryto…”_

Will found himself staring at the mage, a curious prickle of awareness shivering over his skin, as though Hannibal sang words of power into the still morning air. Though he’d heard many minstrels both in the Triangle and abroad whose voices held stronger, there was something indescribably lovely about hearing the lordling sing, leaving Will feeling almost unbalanced where he rode astride Winston. Which was likely why he came so close to being unseated when they rounded the bend and his stallion reared in fear.

“Will!” Hannibal shouted in surprise, all trace of melody gone in his alarm. Beneath him, Abigail danced nervously as well, snorting wildly as her eyes rolled.

It hit Will as he managed to right Winston again, filling his senses as he instinctively dismounted, casting about for the source of danger. Blood. A _lot_ of blood, heavy and thick on the air so that it left a tang of iron at the back of the throat. It was rare that Winston batted an eye at any of the horrors they crossed upon the road and his unrest now meant that the stallion had caught a scent far worse than merely blood and excrement. The knight’s sword rang as he drew it free of its scabbard, the blade gleaming in the light of morning. In the road ahead were scattered the remnants of a caravan, viscera spattered over stone and shattered wood where powerful talons had ripped into the wagons and pulled them asunder. But the most jarring sight was neither the destruction, nor the corpses, but the _statues._

There were four of them that Will could see; two women, a man and a child carved into frozen expressions of terror, their bodies twisted away from whatever horror it was they gazed upon. Even without the clothing still wrapped about their stone flesh to belie the truth of them, Will knew that no mere sculptor would ever be able to depict such raw, genuine panic.

“Cockatrice,” he spat, his sword at the ready as he edged carefully away from the horses and Hannibal, his eyes scanning the rocks. That the blood had not yet dried meant that they’d interrupted the cockatrice’s meal, but the beast was nowhere to be seen among the fallen horses and the statues’ less fortunate companions. “Go now…take the horses. Move slowly so as to not attract its attention.”

“I don’t see it,” Hannibal said softly, his gaze sweeping over the rocks about them.

“Don’t _look_ for it,” Will snarled at him. “Lock eyes with the creature and you’ll be turned to stone. It’s claimed its meal…as long as it doesn’t feel that its kill is threatened, it has no need to attack us.”

The mage stiffened at this, tightening his grip on Abigail’s reins at the edge of Will’s vision. “They’re territorial?”

“Very,” Will affirmed, gritting his teeth. “Which is why I need you to _ride on_.” But it was already too late.

With a terrible screech, the cockerel came darting out from behind a boulder, charging Will with wings flared and tail lashing. Eyes averted away from the beast, his lip curled in a silent snarl and he ducked to one side, avoiding the slash of powerful talons and swinging in hard with his blade. The cockatrice screamed as the dragonsteel cut into its scaled hide, the piercing sound echoing off the stone about them. Limping, it whirled on the knight again, but Will had already pivoted and drew his blade up sharply, severing the head with a primal shout of effort. He panted as the beast collapsed, twitching and jerking as it died, hot blood steaming in the cool air. Snarling, Will kicked at the head and sent it flying across the carnage of the caravan, not trusting that the eyes weren’t still capable of delivering a stone gaze while the corpse was fresh.

“Well,” Hannibal said after a time, watching Will where he stood glaring out at the slaughtered men and horses from where he stood over the creature’s remains. “I suppose that takes care of that, then.”

Ignoring the mage, and piqued that he had not simply ridden on when Will had instructed him to, the knight surveyed the area with a frown, though he didn’t immediately realize what was bothering him. The cockerel was small, standing only as tall as Winston, if that, before Will had taken its head. A cockatrice that size would never have ambushed so large a caravan. They were ornery creatures, not so bold as to take on so much prey at one time.

“A mated pair,” he murmured softly with realization, then whirled back toward the mage. “Get down!”

In a flurry of feathers and scales, the second cockatrice hit the mage and tore him from the saddle, thick talons piercing into his shoulders to drag Hannibal from his mount. Abigail screamed and reared, her forelegs swinging wildly before she landed back on all fours and turned, kicking out at the beast. It was enough to force the creature to drop the mage to the ground, screeching and flailing its immense wings as it peeled off. Will ran to Hannibal, keeping his eyes trained on the shadow of the monster as it hovered above them.

“Hannibal!” Will saw that the mage was still moving, though winded, blood soaking into the fabric at his shoulders as he attempted to grab at his throat. Then Will had to turn his attention back to the monster above them as it dove toward them, slashing up to catch at the cockatrice’s outstretched legs.

Spinning off and away from them again, the hen landed heavily, sending up a small cloud of dust from the road as it did. Pushing itself upright, the cockatrice shook out its wings, its long, serpentine tail lashing behind it. It stood more than half again the height of the cockerel, larger even than some of the dragons Will had faced and was clearly enraged by the slaughter of its mate. Rearing back on its scaled legs, the beast’s chest swelled and Will realized it was about to release a gout of fire.

Hannibal still hadn’t risen from where he lay, gasping in obvious pain, and Will knew there would be no time to drag the alpha to safety before the flame would consume them both. Tightening his grip upon his sword, Will centered himself and then charged toward the beast with a yell, looking it full in the eyes as he cast his Lure. The world faded away, but Will forced his body to keep moving forward as the fire died in the cockatrice’s throat, though the mutual effect of the Lure left him feeling as though he moved through molasses.

Though they were sometimes mistaken for dragons, cockatrice lacked sentience and were merely dumb beasts, driven by instinct alone. As Will rushed the hen, he felt only its rage at being challenged for its kill and for the loss of its mate. It knew no fear, no remorse, no love. It would kill the challengers and continue its feast, never to think on them again. Even as Will watched, the magic of the hen’s stone gaze bloomed within its wild eyes, spiraling slowly out toward the knight as he hurried toward it. It wasn’t enough, even with the advantage of the Lure, the magic would reach him before his blade met her flesh. The thought of Hannibal rose unbidden in his mind and Will felt a sudden pang of regret even as he grimly accepted his fate.

A fate that was stolen from him a moment later as a second blade cleaved through the hen’s neck, toppling its head. Its death slammed into Will, knocking him back from the Lure and the magic of its stone gaze and he fell to a crouch, panting as the world about them assailed his senses once more. Panting and reeling from the echoes of the creature’s death, Will stared unseeing at a woman clad in gleaming silver armor, her gauntleted fists wrapped around a long, wicked glaive. Spinning it back away from the headless beast, she lifted it high and drove it down into the head where it fell, piercing the skull as though it were a melon. The cut to the neck had been so clean that the monster actually took a few stumbling steps that Will rolled to avoid before it crashed down to the earth and moved no further.

Looking over at Will, the woman pulled her glaive free of the beast’s skull and righted it before lifting the visor of her helm. “Are you alright?” she asked calmly and Will finally noticed the sun embroidered onto the white tunic laid over her gleaming armor. A Templar.

“Thanks to you,” he said and straightened to his feet.

Smiling tightly, she nodded at the gratitude. “You’re either very brave or very foolish. I would think a dragonslayer would know better than to charge an angry cockatrice as you did.”

“You know me?” he wondered, frowning.

“Your profession tends to have a certain look about you. You are not the first to cross through these lands since the Great Red Dragon began terrorizing Westreach and likely you will not be the last.”

“A strong vote of confidence.”

“Given what I just saw, I would advise you to turn back, dragonslayer,” she told him solemnly. “Too many have died already. It’s a miracle you weren’t turned to stone…it looked as though you had locked eyes with it.”

Grimacing, Will lowered his gaze to the remains of the cockatrice, shaking his head. “I was merely lucky.”

Nodding, her eyes turned a bit sad and she looked beyond Will. “I am sorry that your friend was not so lucky as you. You have my condolences.”

“What?” Heart in his throat, Will turned abruptly back toward where Hannibal had fallen and found the mage unmoving upon the ground, Abigail nosing him worriedly. “No… Hannibal!” Running to his side, he crashed to his knees, dropping his sword to the ground with a clatter. The mage’s eyes fluttered open at the sound and Will’s body slumped in relief.

“It seems…I should have listened…” the mage wheezed with effort, face contorting in pain.

“Yes, you _should_ have,” Will scolded softly. Unfastening the top of Hannibal’s robe, he pulled it to one side to look at the punctures there, a cold sinking feeling forming in his belly. Though the punctures weren’t especially deep, they skin surrounding them was already an angry red threaded with veins of purplish-black. “You’ve been poisoned.”

“It does feel that way, yes…” Hannibal agreed weakly.

“The hens carry a toxin in their talons,” the Templar said as she came to stand beside them, a small frown creasing her brow. “He…should be dead.”

“He’s a mage,” Will offered by way of explanation. It seemed reason enough as anything and Hannibal did not contradict his assessment. It would not surprise him to find out that the mage’s ridiculous robes - currently a sage green that unfortunately amplified his ill complexion - hadn’t been charmed to turn away a great number of attacks and ailments. “Do you know of a remedy?”

A doubtful moue came to the Templar’s lips and though Will hated her for it in that moment, he understood why. Templars served the House of the Sun, temples of worship that, among other things, preached that men should not dabble in magic. But Will would be damned if he would watch the lordling die now because of dogmatic fallacy.

“Please, my lady,” Will pleaded, his hands fisting in the mage’s robes despite himself. “Please tell me how to save him.”

The Templar’s eyes softened with pity and she sighed, shaking her head. “I’m no lady, sir knight, but I will offer what aid I can. Come…rue is what we seek and it does not grow here.”

Though it wasn’t without effort, Will managed to get Hannibal onto Winston so that he could brace him as they rode, keeping him balanced while the mage drifted in and out of consciousness. The Templar, who was called Ser Miriam, rode Abigail ahead of them, leading them further down the mountain road before diverging off to a smaller trail. The vegetation was thicker here, though still a far cry from the lush forests beyond the Triangle. When Ser Miriam drew at last to a halt, she gestured up at a patch of greenery just visible at the top of a rocky hillside, far more precarious than the horses could safely navigate.

“There…a copse of rue grows on the rise. We’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot. Be cautious on the ascent, the stones are not all as stable as they appear.”

“What of Ha-, Lord Lecter?” Will asked with a small frown, belatedly catching his lack of decorum.

Ser Miriam raised a brow, nodding toward the lordling where he slumped against Will. “Would you prefer that I look after him as you search?”

Here Will hesitated, for although the Templar appeared to be working in their favor, she was yet a stranger to them, and one skilled at battle besides. Fortunately, Hannibal roused, straightening a little. “An illusion…I can set one,” he said softly, sounding faint.

“Are you sure that you have the strength for it?” Will asked him doubtfully.

“Strength enough,” Hannibal assured him with a nod. “Although…it would be best that you not tarry.”

With Ser Miriam’s help, Will settled Hannibal to rest comfortably beneath a meager offering of a tree and tied the horses near him as instructed. Drawing his cloak from his saddlebag, Will tucked it in around the alpha, remembering belatedly that Hannibal had his own cloak he could have procured for him instead. But Hannibal offered no protest to the gesture and Will didn’t rescind it, his belly still knotted with worry. Then he stepped back to watch as the mage’s brow creased with concentration, his lips moving in a murmur of power that Will could feel more than hear. At his side, Ser Miriam frowned and looked away as the illusion built around the mage and their mounts, until Will was no longer entirely certain where it was he had laid Hannibal out.

“Go, Will,” Hannibal’s voice came from seeming thin air and the knight nodded once, turning away.

Ser Miriam led him carefully up the incline and Will followed, shadowing her cautious tread over the rocks. “How did a Templar come to be so familiar with Hogback Pass?” Will asked, surprising himself a little. Clearly he’d grown too used to Hannibal nattering on if he was suddenly making idle conversation with strangers.

“I wasn’t always a Templar, Sir William,” she said, glancing back at him. “As a child I lived in the village at the base of the mountain, long before I took my vows.”

“There were cockatrice here then?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was often said among my village that they were first formed here, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, by sorcerers playing at divinity. A foul chimera formed of those that fly and those that crawl.”

Something in that sent a small fissure of unease through Will, his brow furrowing. “I had always heard that the cockatrice and basilisk were born of strange circumstance. That the clutch of a chicken and a snake were switched and hatched under the opposing mother. That they were born of chance, not malicious intent.”

They came at last to the rise and Will was glad for the level ground, his eyes searching over the foliage. His herb lore was largely composed of what plants were required to maintain the anonymity of his secondary gender. Given that this did not encompass rue, he did not know what it was he ought to be looking for, which frustrated him.

Before he could ask the Templar for aid in identifying the plant, she continued to say, “For a time, before the House of the Sun helped us cull the beasts, the only ones brave enough to traverse the pass wore blindfolds and carried pockets of rue.”

Fully regretting that he’d begun the conversation, he irritably ground out, “A shame that you grew out of the habit.”

“I didn’t.”

The shock of her confession was almost enough to delay him in ducking away from the sweep of her glaive, but Will just managed to roll clear and spun to face the Templar. “What are you doing?” he demanded needlessly, because it was clear enough now. Ser Miriam had brought him here to kill him.

“The mages are a blight on this land!” she told him fiercely, her jaw set in determination. Quick as a serpent, she struck out again at him and Will dodged away, drawing his sword. With her smaller frame, she would have to use the range afforded by her weapon to keep the advantage.

“And you would slay me now to ensure his death?” he spat angrily, dodging and blocking the swift patterns of her blade as she kept him on the defensive. Despite his words, Will could see that her blows were meant to wound, not kill, yet that mattered little when a single misstep would lead to a bitter end.

“I need only delay you long enough that nature take its course! My quarrel is not with you, dragonslayer. You need not die needlessly!”

“_No one_ need die!” he insisted. “Hannibal came here to help, same as I!” His heel met open air and Will shifted his stance, realizing too late that she had maneuvered him back to the slope. If she forced him over, he would likely survive, but it was too steep and too treacherous for him to believe that he would land unscathed.

“Help?” she scoffed and brought the glaive down hard, bearing down against Will’s sword when he caught it crosswise. “It’s _because_ of him and his kind that we ever suffered the madness of dragons!”

Holding the blade above his head with effort, Will understood suddenly that there was no reasoning with the Templar. Ser Miriam was a fanatic and her fervent belief would lead to Hannibal’s death if he did not put an end to it here and now.

“I will grant you your life in exchange for having saved mine,” Will told her coldly, tightening his grip on his sword. “But your arm is forfeit.”

The Templar’s eyes widened slightly, but Will was already in motion, shoving off the glaive and charging forward to drive his shoulder into her breastplate. Toppling over as she overbalanced, the air expelled from Ser Miriam’s lungs in a rush as her back hit the ground, leaving her breathless. She did not even have the air to scream as he drew back to bring the point of his sword down upon her arm, thrusting into the joint of her elbow guard and severing the tendons. He stepped back from her, kicking the Templar’s glaive away as she gasped for breath and curled about the ruined limb, tears streaming from her eyes. Flicking her blood from his sword, Will watched her a moment, then bent and tore open the pouch at her hip, digging inside until he found the sprigs of rue and pulled them free.

“B-bastard!” Ser Miriam gasped and Will glanced up from his prize to see her glaring hatefully at him. “Even now you court death…and I will _rejoice_ when it devours you!”

_‘I **am** death,’ _his voice echoed from his dreams.

“Goodbye, Ser Miriam,” he said aloud and turned away from her. “Pray that our paths never cross again.”

The precious rue now tucked away into the small pouch at his own hip, Will scrambled back down the escarpment as though he were being chased, though he was certain Ser Miriam would remain exactly where he’d left her for a good while longer. If she managed to make the trip back down at all. Although they had been gone no more than an hour at most, fear gripped tight at his chest, nearly causing him to misstep in his haste to return to the mage. Winston and Abigail snorted and whickered in greeting when they caught sight of him, dancing a little to scent the blood on him. Though he could hear their hooves upon the hard ground, he could not see them within the illusion Hannibal had laid until he suddenly crossed into it.

“Hannibal!” he called fearfully, hoping that the sustained guise was a sign of the mage’s fortitude. He went to his knees at the man’s side where he still lay wrapped in Will’s cloak, his hair lank against skin both ashen and flushed with fever. “Hannibal, I’m here.”

With effort, the mage opened his eyes, glassy and bright, but cognizant as they focused in on him. “My knight…have you…come to rescue me?” he managed, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Letting out a breath of relief, he held the lordling tight against him, propping him upright. “Seems I must. And here I thought you had a healthy sense of self-preservation,” he teased gently, cradling him in one arm as he used his free hand to pull the rue from his hip pouch. “Eat this…it will help.” He hoped. Despite Ser Miriam’s deception, he believed her story about the rue…there was nothing he could do _but_ believe her now.

Hannibal parted his lips when the small yellow buds brushed against them, but struggled to make any headway, his movements weak and lethargic. After a few moments watching this, Will drew the plant away and brought it to his own mouth, tearing the bitter buds and leaves from the stem to grind between his teeth. Leaning down, he pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s, using his hand to steady the alpha’s jaw as he pushed the herbs between his lips with his tongue. Drawing back, he waited until Hannibal had swallowed this before repeating the process.

Twice more he fed the alpha the herbs, until the leaves and flowers had all been stripped away and both of them tasted of rue. If Will’s mouth lingered perhaps a moment longer than it should, Hannibal said nothing of it, but instead licked at his lips as though for one final taste of the knight upon them. Already Hannibal’s breathing had become less labored and the rust red of his eyes deepened where they stared up at him.

“Will…”

Pulling off his glove with his teeth, Will brushed his fingers gently over his skin, pressing the back of his hand gently to Hannibal’s brow. “The fever is abating,” Will told him needlessly, sure that the mage could probably feel it better than he.

His eyes sliding away from Will’s face to look about them, Hannibal’s brow creased slightly. “The Templar?”

Drawing his hand from the mage’s brow, Will tried not to think of the hateful way Ser Miriam had looked at him. “We shouldn’t linger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Blood, gore and violence. Also feeding medicine by mouth.
> 
> Note: The song used is a Lithuanian translation of BB's Lullaby from Death Stranding, <strike>because I'm trash</strike>. Hopefully Google Translate didn't betray me too badly.


	5. Five

They rode until Will felt convinced that they were well removed from the Templar’s vengeful fury, though he hoped that Ser Miriam would not be so foolish to hunt them on foot with a useless arm. Despite her fanaticism she seemed more pragmatic than that, but Will had taken her pride along with the use of her arm. It surprised him a little to think on it now, on the cold fury that had nearly consumed him at the thought that she would so willingly let Hannibal die. The rage that she would dare to kill him by her own hand. As though she had any right. As though Hannibal weren’t _his_.

Will’s eyes widened slightly and he nearly faltered in his steps as he brought what bramble he had gathered for their fire, the brief flare of possession burning bright and hot in his chest. Stars above…did he truly _want_ Hannibal?

“Will?” the mage in question asked, looking at him in some concern as he finished laying the warding circle about the camp. He had grown stronger as they traveled, though the exhaustion of the day’s exertion were plain upon his face.

Numbly, Will shook his head and turned his attention back to building the fire, his heart racing. “Are you hungry?” he asked instead. They were low on provisions, but they had enough between them to last until they reached Westgate. There was no need yet to prepare beyond that point.

Seating himself before the flames Will coaxed slowly to life, Hannibal shook his head tiredly. “Not as such, no. I’m afraid that poison and rue make for a poor appetite.”

“You must have been even worse off than I’d realized if it turned your appetite,” Will told him wryly, earning a low chuckle.

“Forgive me, I don’t believe I thanked you earlier,” Hannibal said.

Will stared back at him a moment, then lowered his gaze to the fire between them. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Don’t I? My foolishness nearly cost me everything.”

“Why did you stay?” Will wondered, frowning. “Do you have so little faith in my instincts?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal admitted, chagrined. “I simply underestimated the beasts. I knew they’d prove no challenge to you…I was simply arrogant in thinking that they were also no challenge for _me_.”

A tension he hadn’t known he was carrying relaxed slowly and Will nodded solemnly. “If we’ve any hope of defeating the Great Red Dragon, we _must_ work together.”

Hannibal looked taken aback, then he smiled slowly. “Together?”

The heat of the flames could easily be blamed for the flush that warmed his cheeks as he nodded again, determinedly. “Together.”

The rest of their journey down the mountain road was uneventful and they saw neither Templar nor cockatrice in the descent, though word had already begun to spread of the beast’s slaughter along the road. As they neared the base of the mountain, a village emerged among the rocks and merchants began to call out their wares, hoping to entice the travelers along the road. Will saw several young children peddling baskets of rue and wondered if Ser Miriam would find her way back here. If the injury Will had given would cause her to give up her oath to forge a new path in the place she’d been born, or if she would continue on as a Templar in spite of it. He guessed that it would be the second, but in the end they’d been little more than strangers.

Their mood became more somber as they neared Westreach, the smoke of a still smoldering city growing ever larger in their view. Hannibal had fully regained his strength midway through the second day, going so far as to mend his robes with magic, though he left them a steel grey. Will guessed that he’d similarly restored the flesh at his shoulders as well, sincerely doubting that a man so vain would desire such scars in the way other alphas might.

Anyone that recognized the weaponry Will carried called out to him now, begging for his aid, for vengeance. Everyone seemed to know exactly where the dragon kept his hoard, and why shouldn’t they? No one had faced the Great Red Dragon and lived, so what use was there in hiding? On the eve of arrival, Will called them to a halt at the crossroads near a small holding and sat for a while on his horse, staring silently out at the darkening sky. Hannibal sat at his side and said nothing, for once seeming to understand the need for quiet, for simply existing within the world. By this time tomorrow, one or both of them would very likely be dead and for the first time in as long as he could remember, that left Will with a sense of disquiet.

“Come,” Will said softly, turning Winston toward the flickering lights of the town.

“Will?” Hannibal asked in surprise.

“We’ll seek our lodging there,” he replied without looking at the mage, his expression stoic and set. “Tomorrow we face a dragon.”

Even without looking, Will could somehow feel the warmth of Hannibal’s fond smile as the man huffed a soft laugh and followed. “As you say, sir knight.”

They were lucky enough to find a single room within the town, already beleaguered by refugees from Westgate, but there was no hope in managing two. As it was, Hannibal use a great deal of charm to secure the one they did manage to find, and paid the innkeeper twice was it was worth besides. He seemed unbothered by the fact, especially when they found a reasonably sized tub hiding behind a folding screen upon entering their rented room, Hannibal very nearly moaning at the sight. Will raised a brow at his enthusiasm, to which the mage sniffed with feigned formality, turning up his nose.

“Magic can only do so much, Will. I much prefer a proper wash.”

Rolling his eyes, Will hid a small, fond smile and bowed mockingly. “By all means, my lord…the bath is yours.”

Refusing to be cowed by the knight’s teasing, Hannibal went to find the innkeeper and soon had a steady train of servants filling the tub with buckets of reasonably clean water. Will watched the steady precession in amusement while he stripped to his shirt and breeches to clean his armor and weaponry. Though he’d hardly say it aloud and risk the expansion of the alpha’s already inflated ego, Will still marveled that the spell Hannibal had cast upon it the night they were captured meant that it was in better shape now than it had been prior to his departure from the Triangle. Once the tub was filled and their door was locked, Will made use of the wash basin, cleaning away the dust of the road from his face and neck.

“This close to the mountains, that water will be frigid,” he warned, his own small basin quite tepid.

Affronted, Hannibal gave Will a look and sternly said, “I am a _mage_,” before he gestured toward the tub and spoke several words of power. After half a minute, steam began to rise from the surface and Hannibal looked far too pleased with himself. Searching through his saddlebags, he pulled out a lump enfolded in silk and sighed with satisfied anticipation as he unwrapped a small, milk-white bar.

“Is that _soap?_” Will asked, a startled laugh working out of him.

“Don’t be common, Will. Did you think I would wash with _lye?_” he scoffed, as though the very idea were absurd.

“Did you honestly carry soap with you all the way from the Triangle?”

Rather than dignify Will with an answer, Hannibal palmed his soap with a stern look and stepped behind the screen. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Laughing softly to see the lordling in a huff over such a needless luxury, Will shook his head and returned to his own cleanliness. He was just debating on whether he ought to try and trim his short beard in the small, cracked mirror above the washbowl when he heard the displacement of water as Hannibal stepped into his bath. Abruptly, Will’s humor faded, overshadowed by a strong wave of desire and his reflection stared back at him rather dazedly, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown wide. The back of his neck prickled as he listened to Hannibal relax into his bath with a pleased sigh, water lapping gently against the walls of the tub and over naked flesh whenever he shifted his body.

Backing away from the basin, Will sat himself heavily onto one of their two mismatched chairs and felt overly aware of the way his clothing laid over his skin, as though it had suddenly shrunk to a much smaller size. He wanted Hannibal. There was no denying that now. In his mind he rose to his feet, knocking aside the screen and clambering into the tub to utterly ruin the mage’s coveted bath and the thought left him breathless. Instead, he forced himself to sit very still as the sounds of bathwater on bare skin slowly drove him mad. Were it not for the charm - _Hannibal’s _charm - still laid against his breast, he imagined the scent of his interest would have already given him away.

This was no longer a matter of biology. Will had _never_ wanted anyone the way in which he wanted Hannibal now. As though his body had caught flame. As though he’d been driven into _heat_. Parting his lips, he drew his breath in over his tongue as though to try and better catch the alpha’s scent, drifting in his thoughts as his mind visions of all the ways in which he wanted to consume Hannibal.

“Will,” the man in question drew his attention and his gaze flicked upward to see that Hannibal had emerged from behind the screen, dressed in a clean, white nightshirt. “I’ve finished with the bath if you care to have me to refresh it for you.”

Rising slowly, Will approached the mage wordlessly until he stood close enough to feel the heat radiating off him from his soak. Hannibal’s skin was still damp beneath the fine linen and it clung to him distractingly, teasing at the flesh beneath in the firelight. Though their travels on the road meant that they had each seen the other in all manner of undress over the last two weeks, there was a curious intimacy to see Hannibal this way.

Lifting a hand, he splayed it over the mage’s chest, circling the ridges of the Lecter crest where it rested against damp whorls of hair before letting his fingers trace outward to brush over a dusky nipple, watching it pebble against the fabric. Hannibal breathed in sharply through his nose, but otherwise remained still and silent beneath Will’s exploration, watching him through lidded eyes. Emboldened, Will let his fingers trail lower, pressing in to the dip of his navel before palming at his flank. He could see the faintest impression of the alpha’s cock and Will found himself taking the excess fabric in his hands and pulling it tight against Hannibal’s hips to better see the swell of him. Even as he watched, the soft bulge began to fill under his attentions and abruptly it wasn’t enough.

Gathering up the linen so that it dragged slowly over Hannibal’s thighs and hips, Will let out a soft breath at the sight of his heavy, flushed length. Holding the nightshirt out of the way, he dragged his fingers down over the wiry hair of the mage’s belly to where it thickened at his groin, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal’s for the first time since crossing this line. There was heat enough to burn in Hannibal’s rust red irises, his pupils blown wide for want of Will, yet he seemed content to wait, to allow the knight his spoils. Curling his hand around Hannibal, Will took what was wordlessly offered and explored him slowly.

In the rare instances Will had seen to the needs of the physical over the years, he’d taken only betas as companions. It was therefore a curious discovery to find that the skin at the base of the alpha’s cock was soft and loose, ready to hold his knot when it swelled. Will pulled at it curiously, testing the stretch as he imagined how it would look, swollen and tight. Imagined how it would feel locked inside him.

With a soft, desperate sound, Will fell to his knees and nosed at the wiry curls at the base of Hannibal’s cock, keeping the nightshirt pinned to the mage’s belly as he breathed him in. The scent that had plagued his every waking moment over the past nine days was so much stronger here, clean and bright from the mage’s bath. Heat burned in Will, a throbbing need to bury himself in that scent, to rut against Hannibal until he began to smell of the knight in turn. Mouth opening, he dragged his lips along the length of the alpha’s cock for the sake of feeling the heated flesh against the skin his lips.

“I want you,” he said abruptly, his voice low, yet firm. “I would have you. Mount you.” The last came out as a challenge and his eyes rose to meet Hannibal’s, his chin lifting as though daring the alpha to balk at the very notion of opening himself to the omega.

Instead, Hannibal merely shivered with want, reaching toward Will finally to slide his fingers through the knight’s wild curls. “As you say,” he murmured softly, inclining his head towards Will.

Breath catching, Will surged back to his feet and caught Hannibal’s mouth in a rough mockery of a kiss, almost surprised that he did not taste of rue as he was overcome with the need to fulfill the desire that had been building in his loins. Gripping the fabric of the lordling’s nightshirt in his hands, he maneuvered them back toward the bed, then broke the kiss to lift it away entirely, casting it carelessly to the floor. Will ran his eyes over Hannibal’s bare flesh in the candlelight, then allowed his hands to follow, caressing the planes of his body in a rough, possessive sweep.

At first glance Hannibal seemed as smooth and unmarked as Will would have expected a lord to be, his skin soft and waiting to be bruised under sword calloused fingertips, but looking closer the knight found old scars there. Tracing the fine, silvery lines, Will wondered at their origins whenever he came upon them, guessing that they must have been healed with magic to be so delicate where his own laid a map of violence on his hide. Stepping back, Will pulled off his own shirt and tossed it aside, his hands falling to the laces of his breeches.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered softly. “On your knees.”

For the first time Hannibal hesitated and Will didn’t have long to wonder at the reason as the mage turned his back, revealing the brand. It had never occurred to the knight before this moment that he’d never seen Hannibal’s back exposed to him. Stepping forward carefully, as though he might spook the mage, Will let his fingers hover over the scarred flesh, unnaturally smooth and raised where the design had been burned into his flesh. It looked like the seal of a House, but Will had never seen the crowned boar wreathed in laurels before.

“Hannibal…” he whispered roughly, anger flaring bright and hot in his chest so that he felt fit to burst.

“Not tonight, Will,” the mage told him gently, turning to cup his cheek. “Please...another time.”

An ache started in Will’s jaw, the urge to rend flesh from bone with his teeth making the muscles jump under the warmth of Hannibal’s palm, but he closed his eyes, breathing sharply through his nose until the rage had passed. “Another time,” he said like a promise, turning his head to press his lips into the mage’s palm. And there _would _be another time, because Will had to know how and why Hannibal had come to possess such a thing and to ensure that whoever responsible had been adequately punished.

Leaning into him, Hannibal turned Will’s face to kiss him softly, as though offering comfort to his rage, brushing their lips together until the flame of Will’s desire began to rekindle. Long, graceful fingers trailed down his chest until they found the laces Will had abandoned, undoing them slowly before easing a hand inside. Will gasped into Hannibal’s mouth and gripped at his arms as the mage wrapped a hand around him, stroking him slowly. Rolling his hips into the touch, Will fucked into his hand, panting softly into Hannibal’s mouth as the scent of his slick rose between them. Pushing his other hand into Will’s breechcloth, Hannibal cupped his sack, palming and rolling the delicate orbs before rubbing into the space behind and the gathering wetness there.

“Enough,” Will finally gasped, drawing Hannibal’s hands away from him. “Don’t distract me. I’ll not spend before I’ve had you, sorcerer.”

Chuckling at this, Hannibal gave the knight a fond look and brought his fingers to his lips. “As you say,” he murmured before opening his mouth to taste the wetness on his fingertips.

A flush of want rose in Will at the sight, throbbing in the cradle of his hips and he cursed and shoved leather and cloth down over his thighs and onto the floor. Gentler now, though not by much, he urged the mage to turn once more, pressing a kiss to his marred flesh as he stroked Hannibal’s flank. Sliding his hands over Hannibal’s hips, he moved him, adjusting his position until he was braced on his hands and knees, his hair spilling down over his shoulders.

“Beautiful,” Will murmured, smoothing his hands over the mage appreciatively. “Which I know you’re already far too aware of, but I feel it’s worth noting anyway.”

“Should I thank you for the reaffirmation?” Hannibal wondered in amusement, looking back at him.

“It would be rude not to,” Will agreed with a smirk. Gripping the swell of the alpha’s arse, he kneaded lightly, then spread him, groaning softly at the sight. “Even here you’re beautiful, aren’t you?” He teased at the furled flesh with his thumbs, rubbing over his hole before pulling it wider, drawing a low moan from the mage. Bending, he licked wetly over the skin, clean and tasting faintly of the expensive soap Hannibal had carried with them all this way for the sake of vanity. Smiling a little at the thought that the lordling had used his very fine soap to clean his arse, Will huffed out a breath of amusement and watched the skin tense briefly in response, then licked him again.

“Will,” Hannibal moaned, his knees shifting wider as he let his head hang. He pressed back into the feel of Will’s tongue laving at his hole, the knight licking and sucking at the sensitive flesh until his seed began to bead at the head of his cock. “_Will!_”

“Shh…” Will gave him one last kiss there before sitting back to slip his hand between his legs, grunting softly as he rocked into the press of his own fingers.

Realizing his intent, Hannibal shuddered and shifted his hips back with a low, desperate groan when Will teased at him again. Fingers wet with his own slick, Will’s moan nearly drowned out Hannibal’s as he pushed them deep in the mage, rocking them into the tight heat of his body. “Is this what you want, alpha?” he asked, his voice rough and nearly broken with need. “To feel my slick pushed deep inside you?”

Arching back into Will, Hannibal groaned and looked back at him as best he could. “Please, Will,” he moaned, his breath escaping him in soft pants. “I want you to take what’s already yours.”

“Fuck,” the knight gasped, bowing his head to Hannibal’s back and pressing his fingers in deep, curling them and rubbing until the mage shuddered and spasmed tight around him. Pulling the digits free, Will pushed his hand between his legs again to gather more of his slick, gripping Hannibal’s hip as he stroked it over his cock. “Are you mine, Lord Lecter?”

Hannibal moaned, his eyes falling shut as Will rubbed the head of his cock against him, catching on his entrance. “I’ve always been yours, sir knight,” he admitted roughly, rolling his hips back against Will’s hold until the flared head pressed into him.

Their cries intermingled as Will pushed into him, the tight channel wet with the omega’s slick. He barely gave Hannibal any respite before he drew back again, his hips snapping forward sharply to fuck deeper into the give of the alpha’s body. Back bowed beautifully, Hannibal shifted back to meet him, moaning his encouragement as Will pulled their bodies together again and again, the sound of their flesh joining obscene. Looking down at the flicker of candlelight over the brand on Hannibal’s back, Will felt a dark swell of possession rise in him. How _dare_ someone think to lay their claim on the mage? On _his_ mage.

On his _alpha_.

With a snarl, Will jerked his hips forward and bent over Hannibal, his teeth pressed against the warm flesh of his neck as he panted and grunted, fucking him in earnest. “Please,” Hannibal gasped, turning his head to bare his throat to the omega. “Please, Will!”

The rush of his orgasm nearly blinded him and he gripped Hannibal’s hips in a bruising grip as his teeth closed around the flesh in his mouth, piercing flesh even as he spent himself deep inside the alpha. Gasping, Hannibal flinched and jerked, spasming tight around Will as he moaned, shifting his weight to one hand so the other could grasp between his legs, stroking his cock urgently. Relaxing his jaw slowly, Will licked at the broken flesh with a near whine, then pushed himself upright again, shakily thrusting into the mess he’d made of Hannibal’s hole.

“That’s it…let go for me, Hannibal…” Sliding a hand around them, he cupped his hand around the alpha’s cock and felt at the forming knot with a soft groan, then gripped him tightly so that Hannibal could fuck into his fist. He groaned again when the alpha shuddered and came, spilling onto the bedclothes in copious bursts.

Kissing his neck and shoulders lazily, Will teased and rubbed at the knot until well after the alpha was spent, until Hannibal finally caught his hand with a piteous moan to beg for mercy. Chuckling, Will pulled from him slowly so that the alpha could finally collapse and laid himself out over his heated flesh, feeling warm and utterly sated.

“Well,” Hannibal panted softly after a time, the words vibrating up into Will’s chest where it pressed to his back. “So much for my bath.”

“I can’t believe I bit you,” Will muttered shamefully a short while later, when the endorphins had faded and he’d realized precisely what he’d done.

Their coveted bed was now quite ruined with slick and semen, but they’d stripped off the coverlet and settled beneath the thin sheet to make due. Curled around Will’s back now, Hannibal brushed his lips against the knight’s neck with a soft chuckle. “Should I return the favor?”

Will tensed and glared over his shoulder at him. “Don’t joke about such things. We’re not- This isn’t-“ With a sigh, he settled back down, staring at the far wall. “We’ve known each other a fortnight and we’re like as not to die tomorrow.”

“So grim,” Hannibal murmured against his shoulder. “Have you even considered the possibility of survival?” The knight’s silence was answer enough and Hannibal sighed softly. “I see…”

“Even if we do survive, Hannibal, what then? Lord Crawford seems to think that at the end of this I ought to settle in and embrace my nature. So long as that nature involves becoming heavy with child, I expect.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I can’t even imagine such a thing,” Will told him honestly. “I’m hardly a traditional omega.”

“How fortunate then that I’m not a traditional alpha.”

A swell of emotion caught in Will’s throat and he swallowed thickly. “Hannibal…”

Pressing his lips to Will’s shoulder as though in penitence, the mage pulled him in more closely. “Did you know that dragons mate for life?”

Taken aback by the change in subject, Will snorted softly and relaxed into the foreign comfort of Hannibal’s arms. “Are you now the resident expert on dragons between us?” he wondered.

Humming softly, his lips curved into a small smile against Will’s skin. “It’s fortunate for humanity, don’t you think? Imagine if dragons bore young outside of their breeding pairs as humans do.”

Smiling a little, Will closed his eyes, feeling the siren’s call of sleep begin to pull at him. “Mm, I see… And what do they call these mated pairs, then?”

Brushing his fingers gently through Will’s hair, Hannibal nosed lightly at his ear and whispered, “They call them a wrath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: A lot of smut (mostly smut, in fact), top!omega!Will, bottom!alpha!Hannibal, rimming, fingering, anal penetration, lots of body fluids, and brief mentions of past torture (branding).


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am so sorry that I forgot to post this chapter with the rest! When I realized my error, I got so embarrassed that I could hardly stand to look at my tablet, much less go back and get the damn thing up. Got a bit wrapped up in my head there, so please forgive the delay. I hope it was worth the <strike>unintentional</strike> wait.

Dawn came cold and clear far too soon and Will woke with the sun, a leaden feeling in his heart. Untangling himself from the alpha’s embrace, he wordlessly cleaned away the evidence of their fornication still upon his skin, indifferent to the chill of the water. When he’d finished and reclaimed his hastily discarded clothing, Hannibal roused and rose from the bed to help him into his armor with little regard for his own nudity. Then he cleaned himself as Will had and smiled softly when the knight then dressed him in turn, as though this act of each preparing the other were some ritual for protection.

When they were clothed and packed, they stopped just before the door and looked at one another, silently acknowledging that they would never again find this moment of peace beyond the boundaries of their rented room. Beyond this brief, stolen moment in time. With a small pulse of magic, the mage deepened the gray of his robes to black, as though in mourning of the night now past. Leaning in, Will gave Hannibal a last, lingering kiss, then turned from him and stepped out to face the day, for good or ill.

They delivered their banners to the master of the holding, some minor lord with a stern countenance who seemed as though he would have rather not bothered to be woken so early just to look upon those who had chosen death. The sight of the red carp on a black field gave the man pause however, and he then nodded to them with a gruff, “Good luck,” and went to fly the colors. Were they successful in their quest, they would return to reclaim them. If they did not, the banners would be returned to their Houses, herald to their fate.

As they rode out into the brightening day, Will looked back at the Fisherman’s banner flying alongside that of House Lecter. “A white carp on a blue field,” he spoke for the first time that morning, looking over at Hannibal. “You were right, that first day. House Graham flew a white carp on a blue field. The banner was all Lord Crawford managed to recover from River’s End, and I carried it with me everywhere. I had it with me the first time that I slayed a dragon. The blood…I was drenched in it by the time I was through, but I didn’t realize at the time that it had soaked into the pouch where I carried my banner. Not until I returned to the Triangle and held it aloft, still wet and dripping.”

“A red carp on a black field,” Hannibal said softly and Will nodded, his smile grim and bitter.

“Death became my House that day, born and baptized in blood.”

“Will,” Hannibal began, looking troubled. “I should tell you-“

“Tell me after,” Will said, his voice hard with renewed determination. For the first time since being given this task, Will felt a burning surety that this quest was not in vain. That they would overcome. That they would _triumph_. Sitting up straighter in the saddle, he spurred Winston into motion. “Let’s go slay a fucking dragon.”

The Great Red Dragon had laid its hoard within the ruined hall of House Dolarhyde, a small holding that had been of no real standing, though its lineage was an old one. The matriarch that once held it had been known to be hard on its denizens and equally hard upon her grandson, though in other circumstances he would have certainly become lord of the House once coming of age. Now the hold was charred black from fire, most of the roof open to the sky as though something immense had burst out through it. And perhaps it had.

They approached from downwind, all of their senses strained toward any sight or sound that might indicate the dragon’s presence. Though the land was utterly silent, devoid of all living creatures that sought to avoid the dragon’s lair, they could detect no sign of its presence. Dismounting near a thick copse of trees that would hide the horses, Will gazed up at the stone walls to determine the best approach and then froze. A woman, clad in yellow, stood in the window of the lone remaining tower, her face turned up toward the sunlight filtering in through the dirtied pane.

“She’s _alive_,” Will breathed out in shock, staring up at her. Even as she watched, the woman tilted her face and seemed to sigh, gazing sightlessly out across the meadow before she turned and vanished from view.

“Will?” Hannibal asked softly in confusion.

Looking back at him, Will shook his head in wonderment. “Lady Reba is _alive_. I have to get her out of there.”

The mage immediately frowned at this. “Will, don’t be absurd.”

“I won’t leave her to die, Hannibal,” Will told him firmly. “Stay here and use your magic to hide the horses from view. We have to move _now_, before the Great Red Dragon returns. I’ll go and bring her out.”

Hannibal still looked uncertain, shaking his head. “If the dragon should return while you’re in there…”

“Then you should obviously come and save me,” Will said with a wry grin. “It’s your turn, after all.” With that, he turned and made swiftly for the crumbling walls of the hold and hoped for the first time that if the dragon _did_ return during his endeavor, Hannibal wouldn’t listen to him.

The stench of char was sharp and poisonous in his sense as Will quietly worked his way through the tomb of the dragon’s lair. He had been in several hoards before this one and usually they were filled with all manner of treasures, from gold and precious jewels to ornate carvings of jade and delicately painted porcelain. Many dragons seemed to have a deep, abiding love of human craftsmanship that tipped into obsession when the madness took them.

This hoard was very different.

What treasures there were had been piled carelessly rather than displayed in the manner most pleasing to the wyrm, as though they had been made into crude effigies before they were burned. Throughout the hall Will wound his way among one blackened pile after another, all of the assembled riches no more than a smoldering ruin of charcoal and ash. Will had never seen such a thing, but had no time to allow himself to be unnerved by the sight as he made for the tower.

To his surprise, Will found that the tower was unlocked, but then realized there was no reason for it not to be. Lady Reba’s blindness would make traversing the wild nigh impossible even if she managed to find her way out of the ruined keep. The air was sweeter once he began climbing the spiraling stair, untainted by the foul stench of sulfur and carbon that so permeated the space below. Though he tried to move as quickly and soundlessly as possible, the door above flew open suddenly and Lady Reba gazed sightlessly out into the darkened stairwell, the lamps having gone cold some time ago.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice desperate with hope.

Her yellow dress was smudged black with char and scorched in places and Will could see now that there were dingy bandages wrapped about her hands. As though she’d burned them on the effigies below. Dismissing his earlier assessment as folly, Will understood now that Lady Reba _had_ tried to escape, and more than once from the look of it. That the door remained unlocked was a statement. A surety that even if she left, the Great Red Dragon would only bring her back.

His throat thick with the indignity of it, Will walked up the last few stairs and cleared his throat to say, “Sir William, knight of House Crawford, my lady. I’m here to bring you home.”

Lady Reba’s dark, empty eyes filled with tears and she managed to keep her face from crumbling for but a few moments before she sagged with relief, a ragged sob tearing from her. Gathering her close, Will held her tightly as she wept, letting his own tears slip silently down his cheeks in shared grief. It took only a few moments lamentation for her to pull herself back together and she withdrew from him, wiping at her face.

“Forgive me, Sir William,” she said hoarsely, her voice hushed. “I seem to have had something in my eyes. I’m now ready to depart, by your leave.”

Smiling at her dark humor and quiet strength, Will was reminded of why he’d always liked Lady Reba and he took her hand firmly in his own. “Think nothing of it, my lady. Allow me to escort you from the premises.”

Though Will had worried about the time it would take to navigate their way out of the keep, Lady Reba moved with a surety among the smoldering piles of discarded treasure. It fanned the flame of his rage to think of how many times the noblewoman must have moved through them, mapping her way out of her cage time and again until she could move among them freely. Keeping to the trees once they had emerged from the hold was more challenging, especially as Will was unable to take a more direct route that would more easily give them away, but she kept her hand on his arm and followed his guidance through the woods.

They had just come into view of the seemingly empty copse of trees where he’d instructed Hannibal to conceal the horses when an ear-splitting roar rang through the valley, so loud that it seemed to punch the breath from his lungs. Pulling Lady Reba back against a large beech tree, Will watched as an immense shadow slid over the clearing just beyond the cover of the forest, then vanished again as the dragon soared overhead. Lady Reba clutched to him tightly, her fear visible only in the quick rise and fall of her chest.

“No,” she whispered, lost in the rustle of leaves as they were disturbed by the beat of powerful wings. “Oh no.”

Twice more the Great Red Dragon circled overhead, then the wyrm’s powerful body landed, quaking the earth as it did. It was eerily pale, like a corpse left to bloat, excepting a residue of dried blood that yet stained its claws and the hollow below curve of its jaw. It stood nearly as high as the hold before it crouched forward onto its clawed wing joints, a thin plume of sulfur rising from its maw. Already Will’s mind began to race with a new course of action even as a pang of bitter disappointment sat like ash in his mouth to see the beast’s form.

This wasn’t the dragon responsible for the ruin of River’s End.

_“I may not see you,” _it growled, its terrible, grinding voice echoing through the valley. _“But I can **smell** you.”_

Shoulders tense, Will set his jaw determinedly as he decided on the path he would take, murmuring softly to Lady Reba. “When I go for him, you must _run_,” he told her, low and urgent. “Call out for Hannibal. He’ll find you and get you to safety from there.”

“Sir William, _no_,” she protested at once, gripping at him tighter. “He will _kill_ you!”

But she needn’t have warned him, for Will’s body had already frozen in place, the whole of his being called to attention when in the clearing, Hannibal appeared. Calm and unruffled, the mage looked as though he had casually walked into a lord’s great hall, no more concerned by a dragon than he would be by the nobles of court. His ebony robes swayed around him lightly in the breeze as he stared placidly up at the beast.

“I’ve no interest in discourse with you while you don that form,” Hannibal said frankly, his tone dismissive, though Will had to strain to hear it.

Snarling, the Great Red Dragon snapped its teeth at the mage, seething. _“This form is **mine**. Or have you forgotten?”_

“Are you so afraid of humans that you fear to wear their shape?” Hannibal asked.

The Great Red Dragon growled, teeth bared, and countered, _“Are you so enamored of them that you refuse any other?”_ But despite its words, the immense draconic form began to collapse in on itself, a wave of magic flowing over the beast until it had enfolded the dragon’s mass into the naked shape of a man. The form wasn’t fully human, but a horrific amalgam of dragon and man; skin stretching in the space between arm and flank with a thick, almost rat-like tail lashing out from the base of his spine.

Will could hardly take note of the horns curling around either side of the man’s angular features, not while a bitter knife of betrayal twisted in him, denial battling against the implication of the Great Red Dragon’s words.

_‘Tell me about dragons, Will,’_ Hannibal’s voice mocked from his memory.

“I know who you are,” the man-shaped dragon accused Hannibal, his voice terrible and almost tortured. As though the very act of speaking with a human mouth caused the wyrm pain.

“Do you?” the mage condescended, seemingly unconcerned when the Great Red Dragon began to prowl around him.

“They call you _Wendigo_… A dragon that plays at a man, yet feasts on them. And on your own kind.” Coming close to the mage, thick cords of muscle standing out starkly beneath his pale skin, the dragon snarled at Hannibal. “Did you come to feast on _me?_”

“I had considered it.”

The Great Red Dragon laughed, an ugly sound. “Does it give you power? Gorging on us? _Devouring_ your kin? Will I gain that stolen power if I feast on _you?_”

Though she’d remained quiet as Will’s grip had slowly increased about her arms, Lady Reba gasped in pain when his fingers suddenly tightened in reaction to the Great Red Dragon’s words. To the very thought of this creature daring to think he might consume the mage. Hearing the soft, pained sound, Hannibal’s eyes flicked toward them and that moment of distraction was all that the dragon had been waiting for. In a violent surge of motion, the dragon drove his clawed fingers into the mage’s side and Will’s roar drowned them out as he charged toward them.

Hearing the knight’s angry bellow, the dragon whirled away from the mage to meet him, dodging back from the sweep of his sword as Hannibal collapsed. Throat bulging, the dragon spewed a gout of flame at Will, whose armor caught the brunt of it as he rolled to one side, slashing out again to catch the dragon across his thigh. Snarling in anger, the dragon lashed out with the tail Will had forgotten about in his rage, landing a stunning blow to his head. His grip slackened from the force of it and a clawed foot kicked at his wrist so that he dropped his sword, fingers numb. Only belatedly did he realize that the strike had been sharp enough to split the skin over his cheek, blood flowing down into his beard and over his jaw.

“Will!” Hannibal called out in warning, too late for the knight to avoid the powerful hand that closed about his neck guard.

Lifting Will as though he weighed next to nothing, the Great Red Dragon drew him close, sulfuric breath washing over his face. “Is this boy _yours_, Wendigo?” the dragon mocked, sniffing at him. “I can smell you on him. Does he taste sweet?” Jaw gaping wide, the wyrm leaned in as though to bite at Will’s lips, but from the forest came a sudden, frantic cry of, _“Francis, stop!”_ Jerking as though he’d been hit, the Great Red Dragon looked to the trees to see Lady Reba stumble out from them and Will seized his moment.

Drawing a short knife from his belt, he bellowed out a wordless cry as he drove the blade into the hollow under the wyrm’s arm. Roaring in pain, the dragon’s hand convulsed and then went slack with pain, dropping Will gracelessly to the ground as he stumbled back, grasping for the knife and pulling it free. Will dove for his sword and took it in hand again, but the Great Red Dragon had turned and ran, magic unfurling from his body until he had regained his true form. With a great deal of effort, the beast took wing, blood spilling from the wound Will had afforded him as it pulled into the air and soared out of view.

“Sir William?” Lady Reba asked fearfully when the valley fell silent.

“Here,” he ground out roughly. “I’m here.”

Panting in the aftermath, Will watched the sky closely to be certain the beast had truly withdrawn for the time being, then turned toward the mage where he lay, his arm curled protectively around the swath of red staining his robes. His jaw tight with rage unsatisfied by the dragon’s retreat, Will whipped up the sword to press just under his chin.

“Tell me about _dragons_, Hannibal,” he sneered coldly, the grip tight and sure on the haft of his blade.

“Will,” the mage started, but Will pushed the point of the blade harder against his skin, blood beading beneath dragonsteel.

“Do not dare lie to me, wyrm,” Will warned, his voice shaking with fury. “Or I will cut the forked tongue from your head. You’ve made a mockery of me from the start. _Why did you come on this quest?_”

Hand pressed to the wound at his side, the mage seemed to debate with himself as he lay before Will, then closed his eyes briefly, mind made up. “To kill you,” Hannibal told him simply, honestly. “To slay the knight who had managed to slay so many of my kind.”

“To _toy_ with me? To haunt my _dreams?_” Will accused and Hannibal smiled faintly.

“At first, yes,” the mage admitted. “You were such a rude boy…but I was helpless against you.”

Refusing to be baited, Will’s eyes narrowed. “Helpless? Do not even think to twist this into some twisted measure of courtship.”

“Was it not? I know you’ve felt it, too. This bond between us.”

“No,” the knight denied him. “I feel nothing but contempt for you. Contempt and the certainty that you would say anything to save your skin.”

A complicated series of emotions flickered over Hannibal’s face, before his features settled into a calm mask. “Then will you cast your Lure now, Fisherman?” the mage asked and bared his throat to him.

Will could see the mark he had given the alpha, a livid, accusing red against his skin, and felt something grow tight and hot in his chest. In the distance, the tortured roar of an enraged dragon rumbled like approaching thunder and Will lowered his sword.

“I don’t want to _see_ you, Hannibal,” he told him cruelly, his voice dangerously soft. “I don’t want to know the shape of your soul or let you know mine. Your fate comes for you now and when he devours you, you will be _alone_ and I’ll not think of you again.”

Turning away from the hurt and cold anger that burned in the mage’s rust-red eyes, Will paused only briefly when Hannibal said, “I spoke truthfully last night…dragons mate for life, Will.”

The knight tightened his grip briefly on his blade as he felt the truth in his words, then he sheathed the sword and walked away. “How fortunate for you then that you’ll not be burdened by the rejection overlong.”

The first time Will slayed a dragon had been an ill-fated matter of circumstance.

He’d still been squire at the time to Sir Peter Bernardone, a beta of gentle temperament who had been surprised, but pleased when Lord Crawford had bade him look after young Will. Sir Peter had been fond of animals and wary of people, so he had been charged largely with visiting the various homesteads and fiefs throughout Lord Crawford’s domain, collecting taxes and tithes and investigating what complaints they had. Far from the seeming glory of those knights whose titles had been writ in blood, Sir Peter’s claim to fame was that he was fair and honest and had an uncanny way with animals that made him seem trustworthy, despite his social ineptitude.

They had been visiting the holding of Master Ingham when it happened. The farmer had put off Will from their first meeting, his manner so slick that it seemed his words had to be washed off the skin in order to rid oneself of the residue. Each time they visited, the farmer somehow managed to condescend his way into paying less than was owed, belittling Sir Peter all the while. In what would be their final visit, he was all at once unfailingly polite, charm all but oozing from his pores as they handled their usual business. Will hadn’t trusted the man’s seeming change in demeanor for a moment and had therefore been unsurprised when, on their customary tour of the grounds afterward, the old stable hand pulled them aside. He quietly reported that, in addition more than a dozen head of cattle, three girls had gone missing over the last season.

“Times like these, that’s a sign of a dragon lurking about, for sure,” the stable hand had said knowingly, looking weary.

“It’s Master Ingham,” Will told Sir Peter bluntly when they’d moved to the paddock with a bushel of carrots for the horses, the knight’s favorite pastime at each homestead they visited.

Giving his squire a small frown, Sir Peter had shaken his head with a disapproving air that chastised Will more than any scolding. “That’s unkind of you, Will.”

“But it’s true!” Will had insisted stubbornly, following the knight into the paddock rather than remaining behind the fence. “The way he was acting today…I’m certain he’s involved.”

“So certain that you could accuse a powerful man of murder? An ally of the lord you’ve sworn fealty to?” Sir Peter had seemed almost distracted as he’d said this, as though ruminating over the thought himself.

Reaching up to run his fingers along the powerful neck of a stallion, Will had frowned at the knight, frustrated. “You think it was him, too!”

Sighing as though the very thought weighed upon him, Sir Peter had simply shaken his head, glancing over at him. “To think a thing doesn’t make it true. It is unwise to- Will, get back!”

Frozen in surprise, Will had been too startled by the shout to understand what his mentor and friend was talking about until the horse behind him had reared, kicking out with its forelegs in fear. Grabbing hold of his squire, the knight had jerked him clear and cast him to the ground, but Sir Peter hadn’t been fast enough to avoid the sharp strike of a hoof to his head. Blood streaming freely from the wound, the knight crumpled between Will and the stallion. But it wasn’t a stallion at all. Too late, Will had realized to his dawning horror what Sir Peter had been able to see in an instant.

The equine creature was a dragon.

Screams echoed in his ears as River’s End burned about him and in the grip of memory, Will lashed out in panic, his then-unnamed Lure hooking into the beast even as his hands closed about Sir Peter’s sword. Pulling it free, a feral battle cry had exploded out of his breast even as the dragon gave a terrified scream, caught in the pull of Will’s gaze.

The equine dragon had been so very frightened when he’d realized that the human knight had seen the truth of him, striking out in fear and cursing himself for having grown too greedy in devouring those of the herd that wandered away from their fellows in the night. That fear seemed paltry now that it knew it stood before Death, young though he might seem. The dragon had known that he should have left when the humans started whispering about the abductions of their own, but he’d thought himself safe within the equestrian shape he’d favored for so many years. After all, he had no taste for human flesh, nor any desire to harm them.

The creature’s regret and terror had washed over Will just before the first spray of blood as the swing of his blade struck true, blinding the squire and breaking his hold over the poor beast. Panicked by the tortured sound it made, tangling in the screams of his memories, Will had gracelessly lashed out again at the beast, crudely hacking at flesh. It wasn’t until Sir Peter had managed to catch hold of him that he ceased his frantic slaughter, the man barely cognizant, but horrified as he moaned, “No... No, Will… What have you done?”

Despite the knight’s lamentations, the rest of the holding had lauded Will a hero as they all gathered about the wyrm later, spitting curses and epithets at the twisted figure, forever caught in a rictus between draconic and equine form. Will had felt detached from it all; too lost in the memory of his ruined hold to feel remorse for his actions, too shamed by the knowledge that the creature had not deserved to die to revel in his kill. The knowledge that the dragon had never feared anything so much as it had Will.

With his injury making him a near invalid, Sir Peter retired to a life of animal husbandry and Will, in turn, was granted his knighthood…but it was three years and another dozen girls before Master Ingham was caught.

Will understood monsters. Understood that a lack of humanity was not a requirement. Understood that _he_ should be considered among their number. All this to say that the betrayal of Hannibal did not lie in the truth of his nature. It was that the mage - no, the _dragon -_ had _manipulated _him; toyed with him and forced Will to now doubt the validity of his own heart and mind. He was certain in looking back at their journey together that Hannibal had devoured the highwaymen, but had he ever truly been caught off guard by them? Or had that, too, been just another aspect of his sport.

“Francis will kill him,” Lady Reba broke in to his ruminations quietly when they had traveled some distance from the ruined keep. It had been difficult to convince Abigail to ride away from her master and she now walked sullenly where she paced Winston, as though burdened by the noblewoman’s weight.

Stiffening at Lady Reba’s words, Will gripped at the reins in his fist until the leather creaked in protest. “I do not care.”

“You do,” she told him gently, her sightless gaze turning knowingly in his direction.

“It is no business of yours, my lady,” he told her harshly, feeling no satisfaction in the way she flinched at his tone. “Nor do I wish to discuss it.”

“Francis _wanted_ me to be rescued,” she stressed, her voice firm. “Everything he took, everything he coveted, he _burned_ it. Everything but _me._ I know you saw the remains.”

“I did,” Will agreed shortly.

Nodding a little, Lady Reba took a slow breath as though to steady herself and licked at her lips. “He loves me…and he hates me. Hates that I’m human, that I make him weak. Hates that he chose me as his mate when I can never love him, not after all the pain and suffering that he’s caused. But still he loves me too much to kill me.”

Hearing her conviction, Will frowned in growing understanding. “He needed someone to take you from him.”

“Yes,” she agreed, relief clear in her tone to hear that he believed her. “When I’m gone, when there’s nothing left for him to covet, to _desire_ in this world, he’ll destroy it. _No one_ will be safe, Sir William.”

Will drew Winston to a halt and Abigail obediently followed suit, flicking her tail despondently. “He’s _choosing_ to fall to madness,” he realized in dawning horror.

“_Yes_,” she said again and tears shone bright in her eyes.

His heart racing, Will knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Hannibal could not kill the Great Red Dragon alone, not injured as he was. Unchallenged, a dragon of that strength and size could level the whole of the fiefdom and beyond, raining fire upon the land with unchecked malice. A monster that would burn the world to ash. They had but one chance to finish this now, _together_, before they doomed the land to the dragon’s terrible rage.

“Go!” he cried, startling the horses into tossing their heads, ears swiveled back toward him “Abigail knows the road back! Go now!” With that, he turned and spurred Winston back the way they’d come and prayed that he was not already too late.

The cacophonous crash of massive bodies sounded throughout the valley long before Will saw the dragons, a fire raging already in the clearing and spreading out toward the trees. Their forms were monstrous in the light of it, shrouded somewhat in the haze of smoke, but no less great and terrible for it. Dismounting Winston well away from both the battle and the fire’s edge, Will the stallion off with a sharp, _“Go!”_ and ran toward the fray, spear in hand.

For a moment, Will felt as though he must have slipped into a dream, for the black dragon was there, more visible and somehow more real than it had ever been, its scales so dark and polished that they seemed wet. But then, perhaps they were. Blood had spattered across the Great Red Dragon’s eerily pale hide, staining it in a crimson gore that had led to his namesake. Even as he neared, Will could not make out which dragon had spilt the blood, though he guessed that it had come from them both. Though the Great Red Dragon was larger and no doubt stronger than Hannibal, the black dragon was fast and vicious, a constant writhing mass that ripped at wing and hide with wicked claws.

Even with his heart pounding in his ears as he ran, careful not to lose his footing as the earth shook, Will couldn’t help but be struck by how achingly beautiful Hannibal was in his natural form. Had the alpha not been injured, Will doubted that he would need to lend his aid at all, but he could see that Hannibal’s body was beginning to fail him by degrees. Try though he might, the knight could find no opening to use his Lure, the acrid smoke burning at his eyes as he watched the two. Even if he cast his peculiar talent wide in hopes of snaring them both, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t manage to catch Hannibal alone, giving the bloodied wyrm the advantage it needed to win this fight. It left Will feeling helpless and off-kilter, as though the whole of his rage burned just under his skin, eager to burst free of him and unleash his fury upon their enemy.

The knight very nearly tangled his footing in Hannibal’s discarded robes as he tried to position himself better below the crash of heavy bodies and he frowned down at them. Resting atop the folded fabric lay the carved disk of House Lecter’s black hart and Will stared at it, blood rushing in his ears. There was a presence to it here, free from Hannibal’s person, a sense of energy lying in wait, waiting to serve some purpose. In his mind, the knight could hear the mage’s voice, low and entreating as though driving him to understand.

_‘Dragons mate for life, Will.’_

Reaching a hand to his throat, Will pulled his own medallion free and looked upon it, his heart racing with the possibility. From the moment his father had placed it upon him, Will had felt the weight of it, what he had always thought to be the burden of expectation and later, of memory. Even now, Will could feel that same weight, grounding him…or constraining him.

_‘What do they call a mated pair, then?’ _his own voice mocked in the storm of his mind even as Will blew out a breath and thrust his spear into the earth, unbuckling his sword belt to let it fall.

This was madness, the very thought sheer lunacy, yet as each piece of his armor was cast aside, Will felt as though he were somehow being reborn. Remade by some darker hand than his own. What rational part of his mind remained reasoned that the armor was unlikely to do much in preventing the surety of his death in this place as it was. Why not go into battle like a skyclad king of old? Baring his teeth in a grimace of grim amusement, Will gripped at his mother’s crest when it was all that remained upon his skin, breathing fast and hard through the rictus of his jaws. Then, closing his eyes, he pulled the medallion free because deep in his heart, Will had always known what he was.

_‘They call them a wrath.’_

For a scarce moment, there was nothing but the hot wash of fires burning around him and the roar of battle overhead and Will was merely a foolish knight with a fleeting vision of grandeur. Then power _exploded_ out of him, splitting open his flesh as it rent muscle from bone, twisting and shaping and _releasing_ his form from the prison of his human guise. Briefly blinded, Will was lost in an amalgam of agony and darkness before the world suddenly blossomed back into startling clarity, shining with colors in spectrums he had never known.

Collapsing forward onto clawed hands, Will shook out his head and felt the weight of horns upon his head and when he looked he found that feathers had sprouted from his skin, dark as a raven’s wing. ‘_They call it the Ravenstag,’_ he remembered dazedly, feeling as though he’d just woken from a decades long dream. Tilting back his head, Will loosed the scream he’d felt building behind his teeth from the moment he’d realized the truth of Hannibal’s nature and it left him as a basso roar that vibrated through the air about him. For the space of a heartbeat, the world was shocked into stillness, then an answering cry came from the others; one enraged, one _elated_.

Unused to this body, Will could not hope to use his wings to any advantage, but he was of a height now to do far worse. The Great Red Dragon had turned his head to look upon this new foe and Will at last found his opportunity. Starting forward with a snarl, he _looked_ into the wretched wyrm and caught hold of him, the world fading beyond the Lure.

Rage flooded into Will as the dragon struggled against his hold, infuriated that any would dare to attest to his majesty. Too long had his fury lain impotent, neglected and abused by those who ought to have loved him, ought to have cared for him to the point of worship. For he was worthy of worship, worthy of awe at the wonder of his becoming, free of the fetters so many of his kind took on to hide themselves in this world. He hated those cowards as he had so hated himself when he lived in that guise and would kill them as surely as he’d slain Francis when he burned this ugly, human world to ash.

Hannibal’s sharp teeth ripped into the Great Red Dragon’s thick throat and the wyrm convulsed with pain, arching back so that Will’s Lure fell away from him, but it had already served its purpose. Lunging forward, Will crashed into the exposed underside and tore into the dragon’s belly with tooth and claw and malice. Blood boiled up from the Great Red Dragon’s mouth like magma as he tried to let loose one last gout of flame, but Will’s feathers did not burn so easily and he shook it free to singe the earth below. Powerful wings beating as though the dying creature hoped again to take wing and recover, the Great Red Dragon fell to the earth and stared up at the sky as it died, alone.

Crouching over the belly of his fallen foe, the feathered dragon lifted his head to roar a challenge to the heavens and his voice was fury itself. Free now of the yoke that had kept him captive for so long, he could revel in the hunt; in the flow of blood over his tongue and the splintering of bone between his powerful jaws. Nothing would stand against him. Nothing _could_. Madness sparked from the Great Red Dragon bloomed fever bright within his mind and the feathered dragon embraced it gladly for the sheer novelty of reckless abandon, unburdened now by the weight of the world.

_“Will!_” a voice cut through his revelry, and the feathered dragon whipped its head around with a snarl. Another wyrm waited there, black as the void and crowned in antlers. A challenger for the territory he’d so recently claimed, for the kill still warm beneath his claws.

With a bellow of rage and revelry, the dragon lunged for his foe and cast out the web of his power, burning just behind his eyes. ‘_Lure_,’ a voice whispered inside his mind, but the feathered dragon paid it no mind. The world beyond them faded as the soul-gaze took hold and the dragon flayed his rival open before him.

In place of his foe, the feathered dragon faced a mere man in that shadowed place where soul met soul. Or…not merely a man, for the dragon could still feel the power of him, the danger posed by his presence. It was an illusion, a twisting of perception that hid the black wyrm from his view, yet the feathered dragon could still sense his foe, taste him in the air.

“Will,” the man said to him and the dragon recoiled from what he saw.

The creature, this twisted illusion of a man, _loved_ him. Ached at the sight of him, at the beauty of his rage. Longed to devour him and preserve him in turn, to stand beside him and see all that he would become. Long had he stalked his quarry, full intending to lay him low upon the road, to spill him out as he had with so many others. To prove his dominion over any that thought themselves competent killers. But he had never expected Will. Not his beautiful, clever, _brutal_ boy. Not Death himself.

“Come back to me, Will,” his foe whispered to him, too close, but it was too late.

The feathered dragon roared in rage as teeth sank into the back of his neck, the black wyrm having used its manipulative illusion to come in close while he was caught by the power of his own gaze. Lashing out in anger, he tried to throw the other dragon free of him, but the black wyrm held fast, jaws locked not to kill, not to feast, but to _claim_. A liquid sensation ran through the feathered dragon as he struggled, muscles weakening to the pull of instincts that relaxed into the claim, into the bond that _he himself _had started.

_“Hannibal,”_ he forced out from the strangeness of his mouth as recognition rose in response to his mate. To _Will’s_ mate.

To Hannibal.

_“You are mine,” _Hannibal purred and licked at the wounds he’d made. _“As I am yours.”_ Black scales wrapped about feathers as the alpha dragon curled about his omega and he bit into his flesh again.

Magic wrapped around Will, enfolding him in a loving embrace as Hannibal guided him back through his change, showing him how to conceal his nature back behind the mask of manhood once more. His life seemed to come back to him in flashes, chasing away the burning fury of what Will had absorbed in ensnaring the Great Red Dragon’s soul until at last he knew himself again. It changed nothing, this bond; not his rage at Hannibal’s betrayal, not his concern for Lady Reba, nor even his loyalty to Lord Crawford and yet…_everything_ had changed. Will knew from the moment he’d cast aside his mother’s crest that he would never be the same. Perhaps he’d known from the moment he awoke in the forest to a dragon, black as the void, come to call.

Slowly, despite everything yet unsaid between them, Will lifted his arms to clutch at Hannibal in turn, his blunt fingertips curling into his flesh to hold him there. At least for now…everything else could wait. Bloodied and battered, but concealed once more in their façade, the wrath of dragons clung to each other on the burning battlefield, alive.

“You did it,” Lord Crawford said for perhaps the twentieth time that day, shaking his head in wonderment.

“So you’ve said,” Will replied sardonically. “I’m not sure whether to be offended because you find the fact so unbelievable or because that lack of belief would suggest that you knowingly sent me to my death.”

“It’s hard to believe that I’ve missed your petulance as much as I have.” The man had hardly been able to stop grinning since Will had ridden back through the gates that morning, to great fanfare. “Is there no feat too great for you to overcome?”

“I suppose we’ll never know, will we?”

“Your mind is made up, then?” Lord Crawford sighed, already seeing the answer plain upon Will’s face. “I know that I promised to release you from your oath of fealty, and I hold to that now, but you should know that you need not go, Will. It is not my intention to force you out.”

“I know, my lord…and thank you,” Will told him, and meant it. Though he’d had his share of frustrations serving as Lord Crawford’s sharpened blade for so many years, Will would never forget all that the man had done for him. “My knighthood has ended. It’s safe to say that I am now retired from dragonslaying.”

“The end of an era,” Lord Crawford lamented, but smiled. “We shall have to celebrate your feat, as well as your titling as Lord of Wolftrap Keep. Don’t protest, you’ve more than earned it. And no,” he said, his eyes bright with mirth. “You may _not_ slip out the postern gate until the completion of the fete.”

“It seems you’ve come to know me too well, Lord Crawford,” Will said with a wry smile.

“Jack,” he corrected.

“Jack,” Will acquiesced, inclining his head in thanks.

Nodding in satisfaction, Jack folded his arms, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s only a shame that Lord Lecter did not return with you so we could commend both your deeds in turn.”

At this, Will’s expression took a neutral turn and he moved to the window, looking down upon the battlements where the Fisherman’s banner now flew alone. Unchallenged. Waiting.

“Will he return?” Jack asked when he did not respond, his dark eyes searching.

Fingering the faint scars collaring his neck, Will stared out from the high tower window, his gaze distant and considering. “Hopefully not,” he said quietly, after a time.

Sighing in consternation, Jack’s frown was clear in his tone. “Do you really hate him that much, Will?”

He didn’t answer, but after a time he turned away from the window to look at his former lord. “At the start of this, you told me that your fiefdom was suffering a plague of dragons.”

Brow drawing together in confusion, he gestured that Will should continue. “What of it?”

_‘Dragons mate for life, Will.’_

The ring of pale scars prickled like a promise about his throat and Will smiled very slightly. “Pray that you will not instead suffer a wrath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Kidnapping, gaslighting, lots of bloody battle, carnage, and death.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for joining me on this quest! I hope you enjoyed it and would love to read your feedback. Is it worth a sequel? Until next time, lovelies!


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